r 


i 


PILGRIMAGE 


HONEYCOMB 


PILGRIMAGE 


HONEYCOMB 


BY 

DOROTHY     M.     RICHARDSON 


•     V  •  «  • 

•  r*.      .*•  mm       *        *     .*.      •••     «  '•• 


NEW  YORK  :  ALFRED  A.  KNOPF    191 7 


1  *    •  •  • 


FRINTBD  IN    GREAT    BRITAIN    BV 
WM,    BRENDON   AND  SON,   LTD.,    PLYMOUTH,   ENGLAND 


HONEYCOMB 


CHAPTER   I 


'N>  ^1  T^THEN  Miriam  got  out  of  the  train  into 

V  V     the  darkness  she  knew  that    there  were 

woods  all  about  her.     The  moist  air  was  rich 

with  the  smell  of  trees — wet  bark  and  branches — 

V  moss  and  lichen,  damp  dead  leaves.  She  stood 
on  the  dark  platform  snuffing  the  rich  air.  It 
was  the  end  of  her  journey.  Anything  that 
J  might  follow  would  be  unreal  compared  to  that 
I  moment.  Little  bulbs  of  yellow  light  further 
up  the  platform  told  her  where  she  must  turn 
to  find  the  things  she  must  go  to  meet.  "  How 
lovely  the  air  is  here."  .  .  .  The  phrase  re- 
peated itself  again  and  again,  going  with  her  up 
the  platform  towards  the  group  of  lights.  It 
was  all  she  could  summon  to  meet  the  new  situ- 
ation.    It  satisfied  her  ;    it  made  her  happy.     It 


2  HONEYCOMB 

was  enough ;    but  no  one  would  think  it  was 
enough. 

But  the  house  was  two  miles  off.  She  was 
safe  for  the  present.  Throughout  the  journey 
from  London  the  two-mile  drive  from  the 
station  had  stood  between  her  and  the  house. 
The  journey  was  a  long  solitary  adventure  ;  end- 
less ;  shielded  from  thoughts  of  the  new  life 
ahead  and  leaving  the  past  winter  in  the  Gunners- 
bury  villa  far  away ;  vanquished,  almost  for- 
gotten. She  could  only  recall  the  hours  she  had 
spent  shivering  apathetically  over  small  fires ;  a 
moment  when  she  had  brought  a  flush  of  tears  to 
her  mother's  eyes  by  suddenly  telling  her  she 
was  maddeningly  unreasonable,  and  another 
moment  alone  with  her  father  when  she  had 
stood  in  the  middle  of  the  hearth-rug  with  her 
hands  behind  her  and  ordered  him  to  abstain 
from  argument  with  her  in  the  presence  of  her 
mother — "  because  it  gives  her  pain  when  I  have 
to  show  you  that  I  am  at  least  as  right  as  you  are  ' 
— and  he  had  stood  cowed  and  silent.  .  .  .  Then 
the  moment  of  accepting  the  new  post,  the  last 
days  of  fear  and  isolation  and  helplessness  in  hard 
winter  weather  and  the  setting  off  in  the  main 
line  train  that  had  carried  her  away  from  every- 


HONEYCOMB  3 

thing — into  the  spring.  Sitting  in  the  shabbily 
upholstered  unexpectedly  warm  and  comfortable 
main  line  train  she  had  seen  through  the  mild 
muggy  air  bare  woods  on  the  horizon,  warm  and 
tawny,  and  on  the  near  copses  a  ruddy  purpling 
bloom.  Surprise  had  kept  her  thoughtless  and 
rapt.  Spring — a  sudden  pang  of  tender  green 
seen  in  suburban  roadways  in  April  .  .  .  one  day 
in  the  Easter  holidays,  bringing  back  the  forgotten 
summer  and  showing  you  the  whole  picture  of 
summer  and  autumn  in  one  moment  .  .  .  but 
evidently  there  was  another  spring,  much  more 
real  and  wonderful  that  she  had  not  known — not 
a  clear  green  thing,  surprising  and  somehow  dis- 
appointing you,  giving  you  one  moment  and  then 
rushing  your  thoughts  on  through  vistas  of 
leafage,  but  tawny  and  purple  gleamings  through 
soft  mist,  promising  ...  a  vision  of  spring  in 
dim  rich  faint  colours,  with  the  noisy  real  rushing 
spring  still  to  come  ...  a  thing  you  could  look 
at  and  forget ;  go  back  into  winter,  and  see  again 
and  again,  something  to  remember  when  the 
green  spring  came,  and  to  think  of  in  the  autumn 
.  .  .  spring  ;  coming ;  perhaps  spring  was  com- 
ing all  the  year  round.  .  .  .  She  looked  back, 
wondering.    This  was  not  the  first  time  that  she 


4  HONEYCOMB 

had  been  in  the  country  in  March.  Two  years 
ago,  when  she  had  first  gone  out  into  the  world 
it  had  been  March  .  .  .  the  night  journey  from 
Barnes  to  London,  and  on  down  to  Harwich,  the 
crossing  in  a  snowstorm,  the  afternoon  journey 
across  Holland — grey  sky,  flat  bright  green  fields, 
long  rows  of  skeleton  poplars.  But  it  was  dark 
before  they  reached  the  wooded  German  country 
— the  spring  must  have  been  there,  in  the  darkness. 
And  now  coming  to  Newlands  she  had  seen  it. 
The  awful  blind  cold  effort  of  coming  to  New- 
lands  had  brought  a  new  month  of  spring ; 
there  for  always.  .  .  .  And  this  was  the  actual 
breath  of  it ;  here,  going  through  her  in  the 
darkness.  .  .  .  Someone  was  at  her  side,  murmur- 
ing her  name,  a  footman.  She  moved  with  him 
towards  a  near  patch  of  light  which  they  reached 
without  going  through  the  station  building,  and 
in  a  moment  the  door  of  a  little  brougham  closed 
upon  her  with  a  soft  thud.  She  sat  in  the 
softly  lit  interior,  holding  her  umbrella  and  her 
undelivered  railway  ticket  in  careful  fingers. 
The  footman  and  a  porter  were  hoisting  her 
Saratoga  trunk.  Their  movements  sounded 
muffled  and  far-off.  The  brougham  bowled 
away  through  the  darkness  softly.    The  lights  of 


HONEYCOMB  5 

the  station  flickered  by  and  disappeared.     The 
brougham  windows  were  black.     No  sound  but 
the  faint  rumble  of  the  wheels  along  the  smooth 
road.     Miriam   relaxed   and   sat   back,   smiling. 
For  a  moment  she  was  conscious  of  nothing  but 
the  soft-toned,  softly  lit  interior,  the  softness  at 
her  back,  the  warmth  under  her  feet  and  her  happy 
smile ;    then  she  felt   a  sudden  strength ;    the 
smile  coming  straight  up  so  unexpectedly  from 
some  deep  where  it  had  been  waiting,  was  new 
and  strong  and  exhilarating.    It  would  not  allow 
itself  to  dimple  ;    it  carried  her  forward,  tiding 
her  over  the  passage  into  new  experience  and  held 
her  back,  at  the  same  time ;  it  lifted  her  and  held 
her  suspended   over   the  new  circumstances  in 
rapid   contemplation.      She   pressed   back   more 
steadily  into   the   elastic   softness   and  sat  with 
bent  head,  eagerly  watching  her  thoughts  .  .  . 
this  is  me ;    this  is  right ;    I'm  used  to  dainty 
broughams;  I  can  take  everything  for  granted. 
...    I   must    take    everything    absolutely    for 
granted.  .  .  .  The    moments    passed,     carrying 
her  rapidly  on.    There  was  a  life  ahead  that  was 
going  to  enrich  and  change  her  as  she  had  been 
enriched  and  changed  by  Hanover,  but  much 
more  swiftly  and  intimately.     She  was  changed 


6  HONEYCOMB 

already.  Poverty  and  discomfort  had  been  shut 
out  of  her  life  when  the  brougham  door  closed 
upon  her.  For  as  long  as  she  could  endure  and 
achieve  any  sort  of  dealing  with  the  new  situa- 
tion, they  had  gone,  the  worry  and  pain  of  them 
could  not  touch  her.  Things  that  rose  warm 
and  laughing  and  expanding  within  her  now, 
that  had  risen  to  the  beauty  and  music  and 
happiness  of  Germany  and  been  crushed  because 
she  was  the  despised  pupil  teacher,  that  had  dried 
up  and  seemed  to  die  in  the  English  boarding 
school,  were  going  to  be  met  and  satisfied  .  .  . 
she  looked  down  at  the  hands  clasped  on  her 
knees,  the  same  hands  and  knees  that  had  ached 
with  cold  through  long  winter  days  in  the  base- 
ment schoolroom  .  .  .  chilblains  .  .  .  the  ever- 
lasting unforgettable  aching  of  her  sore  throat 
.  .  .  things  that  had  made  her  face  yellow  and 
stiff  or  flushed  with  fever  .  .  .  gone  away  for 
ever.  Her  old  self  had  gone,  her  governess  self. 
It  had  really  gone  weeks  ago,  got  up  and  left  her 
in  that  moment  when  she  had  read  Mrs.  Corrie's 
letter  in  Bennett's  villa  in  the  middle  of  a  bleak 
February  afternoon.  A  voice  had  seemed  to 
come  from  the  large  handwriting  scrawling 
across  the  faint  blue  page  under  the  thick  neat 


HONEYCOMB  7 

small  address  in  raised  gilt.  The  same  voice, 
begging  her  to  come  for  a  few  weeks  and  try- 
seemed  to  resound  gently  in  the  brougham. 
She  had  not  accepted  the  situation  ;  she  had 
accepted  something  in  Mrs.  Corrie's  imagined 
voice  coming  to  her  confidently  from  the  big 
wealthy  house. 

The  brougham  passed  a  lamp  and  swerved  in 
through  a  gate,  bowling  along  over  softly  crunch- 
ing gravel.  She  pressed  reluctantly  against  the 
cushioned  back.  The  drive  had  been  too  short. 
.  .  .  Bennett's  friends  had  given  the  Corries 
wrong  ideas  about  her.  They  wanted  a  governess. 
She  was  not  a  governess.  There  were  governesses 
.  .  .  the  kind  of  person  they  wanted.  It  was  a 
mistake ;  another  mistake  .  .  .  the  brougham 
made  a  beautiful  dull  humming,  going  along  a 
tree-lined  tunnel.  .  .  .  What  did  the  Corries 
want  of  her,  arriving  in  their  brougham  ?  What 
did  they  expect  her  to  do  ?  .  .  . 


As  the  footman  opened  the  door  of  the 
brougham,  a  door  far  back  in  the  dim  porch  was 
flung  back,  letting  out  a  flood  of  light,  and  the 
swift  figure  of  a  parlourmaid  who  seized  Miriams' 


8  HONEYCOMB 

Gladstone  bag  and  the  silver-mounted  Banbury 
Park  umbrella  and  led  the  way  across  the  porch 
into  the  soft  golden  blaze.  The  Saratoga  trunk 
had  gone  away  with  the  brougham,  and  in  a  mo- 
ment the  door  was  closed  and  Miriam  was  stand- 
ing, frightened  and  alone,  in  a  fire-lit,  lamp-lit, 
thickly  carpeted  enclosure  within  sound  of  a 
thin  chalky  voice  saying  "  Ello,  ello."  It 
seemed  to  come  from  above  her.  "  Ello — ello — 
ello — ello,"  it  said  busily,  hurrying  about  some- 
where above  as  she  gazed  about  the  terrifying 
hall.  It  was  somehow  like  the  box  office  of  a 
large  theatre,  only  much  better ;  the  lamplight, 
there  seemed  to  be  several  lamps  shaded  with  low- 
hanging  old  gold  silk,  and  the  rosy  light  from  the 
huge  clear  fire  in  a  deep  grate  fell  upon  a 
thick  pale  greeny  yellow  carpet,  the  little 
settees  with  their  huge  cushions,  and  the  strange- 
looking  pictures  set  low  on  dull  gold  walls.  In 
two  directions  the  hall  went  dimly  away  towards 
low  archways  screened  by  silently  hanging  bead 
curtains.  "  Ello — ello — ello — ello,"  said  the  voice 
coming  quickly  downstairs.  Half  raising  her 
eyes  Miriam  saw  a  pale  turquoise  blue  silk  dress, 
long  and  slender  with  deep  frills  of  black  chiffon 
round  the  short  sleeves  and  a  large  frill  draping 


HONEYCOMB  9 

the   low-cut   bodice,    a   head   and   face,   sheeny 
bronze  and  dead  white,  coming  across  the  hall. 

"  Ow-de-do  ;  so  glad  you've  come,"  said  the 
voice,  and  two  thin  fingers  and  a  small  thin 
crushed  handkerchief  were  pressed  against  her 
half-raised  hand. 

"  Are  you  famished?  Deadly  awful  journey  ! 
I'm  glad  you're  tall.  Wiggerson'll  take  up  your 
things.  You  must  be  starvin'.  Don't  change. 
There's  only  me.  Don't  be  long.  I  shall  tell 
them  to  put  on  the  soup." 

Gently  propelled  towards  the  staircase  Miriam 
went  mechanically  up  the  wide  shallow  stairs 
towards  the  parlourmaid  waiting  at  the  top. 
Behind  her  she  heard  the  swift  fuffle  of  Mrs. 
Corrie's  dress,  the  swish  of  a  bead  curtain  and 
the  thin  tuneless  voice  inaccurately  humming  in 
some  large  near  room,  "  Jack's  the  boy  for  work  ; 
Jack's  the  boy  for  play."  She  followed  the  maid 
across  the  landing,  walking  swiftly,  as  Mrs. 
Corrie  had  done — the  same  greeny  carpet,  but 
white  walls  up  here  and  again  strange  pictures 
hung  low,  on  a  level  with  your  eyes,  strange  soft 
tones  .  .  .  crayons  ?  .  .  .  pastels  ? — what  was 
the  word — she  was  going  to  live  with  them,  she 
would  be  able  to  look  at  them — and  everything 


io  HONEYCOMB 

up  here,  in  the  soft  pink  light.  There  were  large 
lamps  with  rose-pink  shades.  The  maid  held 
back  a  pink  silk  curtain  hanging  across  an  alcove, 
and  Miriam  went  through  to  the  open  door  of 
her  room.  "  Harris  will  bring  up  your  trunk 
later,  miss — if  you  like  to  leave  your  keys  with 
me,"  said  the  maid  behind  her.  "  Oh  yes," 
said  Miriam  carelessly,  going  on  into  the  room. 
"  Oh,  I  don't  know  where  they  are.  Oh,  it 
doesn't  matter,  I'll  manage." 

"  Very  good,  miss,"  said  Wiggerson  politely, 
and  came  forward  to  close  the  bedroom  door. 

Miriam  flung  off  her  outer  things  and  faced 
herself  in  the  mirror  in  her  plain  black  hopsack 
dress  with  the  apple  green  velveteen  pipings 
about  the  tight  bodice  and  the  square  box 
sleeves  which  filled  the  square  mirror  from  side 
to  side  as  she  stood.  "  This  dress  is  a  nightmare 
in  this  room,"  she  thought,  puffing  up  her  hair 
under  her  fringe-net  with  a  hat-pin.  "  Never 
mind,  I  mustn't  think  about  it,"  she  added 
hurriedly,  disconcerted  for  a  moment  by  the 
frightened  look  in  her  eyes.  The  distant  soft 
flat  silvery  swell  of  a  little  gong  sent  her  hurrying 
to  the  mound  of  soft  bath  towel  in  the  wide 
pale  blue  wash-hand  basin.    She  found  a  bulging 


HONEYCOMB  n 

copper  hot-water  jug,  brilliantly  polished,  with 
a  wicker-covered  handle.  The  water  hissed 
gently  into  the  wide  shallow  basin,  sending  up  a 
great  cloud  of  comforting  steam.  Dare's  soap 
.  .  .  extraordinary.  People  like  this  being  taken 
in  by  advertisements  .  .  .  awful  stuff,  full  of 
free  soda,  any  transparent  soap  is  bad  for  the 
skin,  must  be,  in  the  nature  of  things  .  .  . 
makes  your  skin  feel  tight.  Perhaps  they  only 
use  it  for  their  hands.  .  .  .  Advertisement  will 
do  anything,  Pater  said.  .  .  .  Perhaps  in  houses 
like  this — plonk,  it  certainly  made  a  lovely  hard 
ring  falling  into  the  basin — where  everything 
was  warm  and  clean  and  fragrant  even  Dare's 
soap  could  not  hurt  you.  The  room  behind  her 
seemed  to  encourage  the  idea.  But  surely  it 
couldn't  be  her  room.  It  was  a  spare  room. 
They  had  put  her  into  it  for  her  month  on  trial. 
Could  it  possibly  be  hers,  just  her  room,  if  she 
stayed  .  .  .  the  strange,  beautiful,  beautiful  long 
wide  hang  of  the  faintly  patterny  faintly  blue 
curtains  covering  the  whole  of  the  window 
space  ;  the  firelight  on  them  as  she  came  into 
the  room  with  Wiggerson,  the  table  with  a  blotter, 
there  had  been  a  table  by  the  door  with  a  blotter, 
as  Wiggerson  spoke.     She  looked  round,  there 


12  HONEYCOMB 

it  was  .  .  .  the  blue  covered  bed,  the  frilled 
pillows,  high  silky-looking  bed  curtains  with  some 
sort  of  little  pattern  on  them,  the  huge  clear  fire, 
the  big  wicker  chair. 

3 

Miriam  laughed  over  her  strange  hot  wine- 
clear  wine-flavoured  soup  .  .  .  two  things  about 
soup  besides  taking  it  from  the  side  of  your  spoon, 
which  everybody  knows — you  eat  soup,  and  you 
tilt  your  plate  away,  not  towards  you  (chum 
along,  chum  along  and  eat  your  nice  hot  soup). 
.  .  .  Her  secure,  shy,  contented  laugh  was  all 
right  as  a  response  to  Mrs.  Corrie,  sitting  at  the 
head  of  the  long  table,  a  tall  graceful  bird,  thin 
broad  shoulders,  with  the  broad  black  frill 
slipping  from  them,  rather  broad  thin  oval 
white  face,  wiry  auburn  Princess  of  Wales  fringe 
coming  down  into  a  peak  with  hollow  beaten-in 
temples  each  side  of  it,  auburn  coils  shining  as 
she  moved  her  head  and  the  chalky  lisping  voice 
that  said  little  things  and  laughed  at  them  and 
went  on  without  waiting  for  answers.  But  to 
herself  the  laugh  meant  much  more  than  liking 
Mrs.  Corrie  and  holding  her  up  and  begging  her 
to  go  on.    It  meant  the  large  dark  room,  the  dark 


HONEYCOMB  13 

invisible  picture,  the  big  pieces  of  strange  dark 
furniture  in  gloomy  corners,  the  huge  screen 
near  the  door  where  the  parlourmaid  came  in 
and  out ;  the  table  like  an  island  under  the  dome 
of  the  low-hanging  rose-shaded  lamp,  the  table- 
centre  thickly  embroidered  with  beetles'  wings, 
the  little  dishes  stuck  about,  sweets,  curiously 
crusted  brown  almonds,  sheeny  grey-green  olives ; 
the  misty  beaded  glass  of  the  finger  bowls — 
Venetian  glass  from  that  shop  in  Regent  Street — 
the  four  various  wine  glasses  at  each  right  hand, 
one  on  a  high  thin  stem,  curved  and  fluted  like  a 
shallow  tulip,  filled  with  hock ;  and  floating  in 
the  warmth  amongst  all  these  things  the  strange, 
exciting,  dry  sweet  fragrance  coming  from  the 
mass  of  mimosa,  a  forest  of  little  powdery  blos- 
soms, little  stiff  grey — the  arms  of  railway  signals 
at  junctions — Japanese  looking  leaves — standing 
as  if  it  were  growing,  in  a  shallow  bowl  under 
the  rose-shaded  lamp. 

"  Melie's  coming  on  Friday." 

The  parlourmaid  set  before  Miriam  a  small 
shapely  fish,  with  scales  like  mother-of-pearl  and 
pink  fins,  lying  in  a  curl  of  paper.  "  Red  mullet," 
she  exclaimed  to  herself ;  "  how  on  earth  do  I 
know  that  it's  red  mullet  ?    And  those  are  olives, 


i4  HONEYCOMB 

of  course."  Mrs.  Corrie  was  humming  to  herself 
about  Melie  as  the  fork  in  her  thin  little  fingers 
plucked  fitfully  at  the  papered  fish.  "  Do  you 
know  planchette  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  faint  sing- 
song, turning  with  a  little  bold  pounce  to  the 
salt-cellar  close  at  Miriam's  left  hand.  "  Oh-h-h  " 
said  Miriam  intelligently.  ..."  Planchette  .  .  . 
Planchette  .  .  .  Cloches  de  Corneville.  Plan- 
quette.  Is  planchette  a  part  of  all  this  ?  .  .  . 
Planchette,  a  French  dressmaker,  perhaps."  She 
turned  fully  round  to  Mrs.  Corrie  and  waited, 
smiling  sympathetically.  "  It's  deadly  uncanny," 
Mrs.  Corrie  went  on,  "  I  can  tell  you.  Deadly." 
Her  delicate  voice  stopped  fearfully  and  she 
glanced  at  Miriam  with  a  laugh.  "  I  don't 
believe  I  know  what  it  is,"  said  Miriam,  sniffing 
in  the  scent  of  the  mimosa  and  savouring  the 
delicate  flavour  of  the  fish.  These  things  would 
go  on  after  planchette  was  disposed  of,  she 
thought,  and  took  a  sip  of  hock. 

"  It's  deadly.  I  hope  Melie'll  bring  one. 
She's  a  fairy ;  real  Devonshire  fairy.  She'll 
make  it  work.    We'll  have  such  fun." 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Miriam  a  little  uneasily. 
...  A  fairy  and  a  planchette  and  fun — silly 
laughter,  some  tiresome  sort  of  game  ;   a  hoax. 


HONEYCOMB  15 

"  I  tell  you  all  about  it,  all,  all  .  .  .  intoned 
Mrs.  Corrie  provisionally,  whilst  the  maid  handed 
the  tiny  ready-cut  saddle  of  lamb.  "  Spinnich  ? 
Ah,  nicey  spinnich ;  you  can  leave  us  that, 
Stokes.  .  .  .  Oh,  you  must  have  Burgundy — 
spin-spin  and  Burgundy  ;  awful  good  ;  a  thimble- 
full,  half  a  glass ;   that's  right." 

The  clear  dry  hock  had  leapt  to  Miriam's 
brain  and  opened  her  eyes,  the  Burgundy  spread 
through  her  limbs,  a  warm  silky  tide.  The  green 
flavour  of  the  spinach,  tasting  of  earth,  and  yet 
as  smooth  as  cream  intoxicated  her.  Surely 
nothing  could  so  delicately  build  up  your  strength 
as  these  small  stubby  slices  of  meat  so  tender 
that  it  seemed  to  crumble  under  your  teeth.  .  .  . 
"  It's  an  awful  thing.  It  whirls  about  and  writes 
with  a  pencil.  Writes.  All  sorts  of  things," 
said  Mrs.  Corrie,  with  a  little  frightened  laugh. 
"  Really.  No  nonsense.  Names.  Anythin'. 
Whatever  you're  thinkin'  about.  It's  uncanny, 
I  can  tell  you." 

"  It  sourids  most  extraordinary,"  said  Miriam, 
with  a  firm  touch  of  scepticism. 

"  You  wait.  Oh — you  wait,"  sang  Mrs.  Corrie 
in  a  whisper.  "  I  shall  find  out,  I  shall  find  out,  if 
you're  not  careful,  I  shall  find  out  his  name." 


16  HONEYCOMB 

Miriam  blushed  violently.  "  Ah-ha,"  beamed 
Mrs.  Corrie  in  a  soft  high  monotone.  '  I  shall 
find  out.    We'll  have  such  fun." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  it  ?  "  said  Miriam,  half 
irritably. 

"  You  wait — you  wait — you  wait,  young  lady. 
Melie'H  be  here  on  Friday  day." 

The  rich  caramel,  the  nuts  and  dessert,  Mrs. 
Corrie's  approval  of  her  refusal  of  port  wine 
with  her  nuts,  the  curious,  half-drowsy  chill 
which  fell  upon  the  table,  darkening  and  sharpen- 
ing everything  in  the  room  as  the  broken  brown 
nutshells  increased  upon  their  trellis-edged  plates 
were  under  the  spell  of  the  strange  woman.  Mrs. 
Corrie  kept  on  talking  about  her;  Melie — born 
in  Devonshire,  seeing  fairies,  having  second  sight, 
being  seen  one  day  staring  into  space  by  a  sports- 
man, a  fisherman,  a  sort  of  poet,  who  married 
her  and  brought  her  to  London.  Did  Mrs. 
Corrie  really  believe  that  she  knew  everything  ? 
"  I  believe  she's  a  changeling,"  laughed  Mrs. 
Corrie  at  last — "  oh,  it's  cold.  Chum-long, 
let's  go." 


HONEYCOMB  17 

4 

"  We  can't  go  into  my  little  room,"  said  Mrs. 
Corrie,  turning  to  Miriam  with  a  little  excited 
catch  in  her  voice,  as  the  bead  curtain  rattled 
gently  into  place  behind  them.  "  It's  bein'  re- 
done." Just  ahead  of  them,  beyond  a  mystery 
of  palms  to  right  and  left,  a  door  opened  upon 
warm  brilliance.  Miriam  heard  the  busy  tranquil 
flickering  of  a  fire.  "  I  see,"  she  said  eagerly. 
'  Why  does  she  explain  ?  "  she  wondered,  as  they 
passed  into  the  large  clear  room.  How  light  it 
was,  fairyland,  light  and  fragrant  and  very  warm. 
The  light  was  high  ;  creamy  bulbs,  high  up,  and 
creamy  colour  everywhere,  cream  and  gold  stripes, 
stripy  chairs  of  every  shape,  some  of  them  with 
twisted  gilt  legs,  curious  oval  pictures  in  soft 
half-tones,  women  in  hats,  strange  groups,  all 
tilted  forward  like  mirrors. 

'  Ooogh — barracky,  ain't  it  ?  I  hate  empty 
droin'-rooms,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie,  sweeping  swiftly 
about,  pushing  up  great  striped  easy  chairs 
towards  the  fire.  Miriam  stood  in  a  dream, 
watching  the  little  pale  hands  in  the  clear  light, 
dead  white  fingers,  rings,  twinkling  green  and 
sea  blue,  and  the  thin  cruel  flash  of  tiny  diamonds 


18  HONEYCOMB 

.  .  .  harpy  hands  .  .  .  dreadful  and  clever  .  .  . 
one  of  the  hands  came  upon  her  own  and  com- 
pelled her  to  drop  into  a  large  cushioned  chair. 

"  Like  him  black  ?  "  came  the  gay  voice. 
Coffee  cups  tinkled  on  a  little  low  table  near 
Mrs.  Corrie's  chair.  "  I'm  glad  you're  tall. 
Kummel  ?  " 

"  She  doesn't  know  German  pronunciation," 
thought  Miriam  complacently. 

"  I  suppose  I  am,"  she  said,  accepting  a  trans- 
parent little  cup  and  refusing  the  liqueur. 
Those  strange  eyes  were  blue  with  dark  rings 
round  the  iris  and  there  were  fine  deep  wrinkles 
about  the  mouth  and  chin.  She  looked  so  pic- 
turesque sitting  there,  like  something  by  an  "  old 
master,"  but  worn  and  tired.  Why  was  she  so 
happy — if  she  thought  so  many  things  were 
deadly  awful.  .  .  . 

"  How's  Gabbie  Anstruther  ?  " 

"  Oh — you  see — I  don't  know  Mrs.  Anstruther. 
They  are  patients  of  my  future  brother-in-law. 
It  was  all  arranged  by  letter." 

"  About  your  comin'  here,  you  mean.  I  say — 
you'll  never  get  engaged,  will  you  ?     Promise  ?  ' 

Miriam  got  up  out  of  her  deep  chair  and  stood 
with  her  elbow  on  the  low  mantel  staring  into 


HONEYCOMB  19 

the  fire.  She  heard  phrases  from  Mrs.  Anstruther's 
letter  to  Bennett  as  if  they  were  being  spoken  by 
a  tiresome  grave  voice.  "  She  doats  upon  her 
children.  What  she  really  wants  is  someone  to 
control  her  ;  read  Shakespeare  to-  her  and  get 
her  into  the  air."  Mrs.  Corrie  did  not  want 
Shakespeare.  That  was  quite  clear.  And  it  was 
quite  clear  that  she  wanted  a  plain  dull  woman 
she  could  count  on  ;  always  there,  in  a  black  dress] 
She  doated.  Someone  else,  working  for  her,  in 
her  pay,  would  look  after  the  children  and  do  the 
hard  work. 

"  The  kiddies  were  riffickly  'cited.  Wanted 
to  stay  up.    I  hope  you're  strict,  very  strict,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  believe  I'm  supposed  to  understand  dis- 
cipline," said  Miriam  stiffly,  gazing  with  weary 
eyes  at  the  bars  of  the  grate. 

"  We  were  in  an  awful  fix  before  we  heard 
about  you.  Poor  old  Bunnikin  breakin'  down. 
She  adored  them — they're  angels.  But  she 
hadn't  the  tiniest  bit  of  a  hold  over  them.  Used 
to  cry  when  they  were  naughty.  You  know. 
Poor  old  kiddies.  Want  them  to  be  awfully 
clever.  Work  like  a  house  afire.  I  know  you're 
clever.  P'raps  you  won't  stay  with  my  little 
heathens.     Do  try  and  stay.     I  can  see  you've 


20  HONEYCOMB 

got  just  what  they  want.  Strong-minded,  eh  ? 
I'm  an  imbecile.  So  was  poor  old  Bunnikin. 
D'you  like  kiddies  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I'm  very  fond  of  children,"  said  Miriam 
despairingly.  She  stared  at  the  familiar  bars. 
They  were  the  bars  of  the  old  breakfast-room 
grate  at  home,  and  the  schoolroom  bars  at 
Banbury  Park.  There  they  were  again  hard  and 
black  in  the  hard  black  grate  in  the  midst  of  all 
this  light  and  warmth  and  fragrance.  Nothing 
had  really  changed.  Black  and  hard.  Someone's 
grate.  She  was  alone  again.  Mrs.  Corrie  would 
soon  find  out.  "  I  think  children  are  so  inter- 
esting" she  said  conversationally,  struck  by  a 
feeling  of  orginality  in  the  remark.  Perhaps 
children  were  interesting.  Perhaps  she  would 
manage  to  find  the  children  interesting.  She 
glanced  round  at  Mrs.  Corrie.  Her  squarish 
white  face  was  worn.  Her  eyes  and  neck  looked 
as  though  all  the  life  and  youth  had  been 
washed  away  from  them  by  some  long  sorrow. 
Her  smile  was  startling  .  .  .  absolute  confidence 
and  admiration  .  .  .  like  mother.  But  she  would 
find  out  if  one  were  not  really  interested. 


HONEYCOMB  21 

5 

That  night  Miriam  roamed  about  her  room 
from  one  to  another  of  the  faintly  patterned 
blue  hangings.  Again  and  again  she  faced  each 
one  of  them.  For  long  she  contemplated  the 
drapery  of  the  window  space,  the  strange  forest- 
like confusion  made  in  the  faint  pattern  of  tiny 
leaves  and  flowers  by  the  many  soft  folds,  and 
turned  from  it  for  a  distant  view  of  the  draperies 
of  the  bed  and  the  French  wardrobe.  Sitting 
down  by  the  fire  at  last  she  had  them  all  in  her 
mind's  eye.  She  was  going  to  be  with  them  all 
night.  If  she  stayed  with  them  long  enough  she 
would  wake  one  day  with  red  bronze  hair  and  a 
pale  face  and  thin  white  hands.  And  by  that 
time  lif  e  would  be  all  strange  draperies  and  strange 
inspiring  food  and  mocking  laughing  people  who 
floated  about  hiding  a  great  secret  and  servants 
who  were  in  the  plot,  admiring  and  serving  it 
and  despising  as  much  as  anybody  the  vulgar 
things  outside. 

Her  black  dress  mocked  at  these  thoughts  and 
she  looked  about  for  her  luggage.  Finding  the 
Saratoga  trunk  behind  the  draperies  of  the 
French    wardrobe    she    extracted    her    striped 


22  HONEYCOMB 

flannelette  dressing-gown  and  presently  sat  down 
again  with  loosened  hair.  Entrenched  in  her 
familiar  old  dressing-gown,  she  felt  more  com- 
pletely the  power  of  her  surroundings.  Whatever 
should  happen  in  this  strange  house  she  had  sat 
for  one  evening  in  possession  of  this  room.  It 
was  added  for  ever  to  the  other  things.  And 
this  one  evening  was  more  real  than  all  the 
fifteen  months  at  Banbury  Park.  It  was  so  far 
away  from  everything,  trams  and  people  and 
noise — it  was  in  the  centre  of  beautiful  exciting 
life  ;  perfectly  still  and  secure.  Creeping  to  the 
window  she  held  back  the  silk-corded  rim  of  a 
curtain — a  deep  window-seat,  a  row  of  oblong 
lattices  with  leaded  diamond  panes.  One  of  the 
windows  was  hasped  a  few  inches  open.  No 
sound  came  in  .  .  .  soft  moist  air  and  the  smell 
of  trees.  Nothing  but  woods  all  round,  every- 
where. 

6 

The  next  morning  a  housemaid  tapped  at 
Miriam's  door  half  an  hour  after  she  had  called 
her  to  say  that  her  breakfast  was  laid  in  the 
schoolroom.  Going  out  on  to  the  landing  she 
discovered  the  room  by  a  curious  rank  odour 
coming  towards  her  through  a  half-opened  door. 


HONEYCOMB  23 

Pushing  open  the  door  she  found  a  large  clear 
room,  barely  furnished,  carpeted  with  linoleum 
and  cold  in  the  morning  light  pouring  through 
an  undraped  window.  In  the  grate  smoked  a 
half-ignited  fire  and  one  corner  of  the  hearth-rug 
caught  by  a  foot  lay  turned  back.  Across  one 
end  of  the  baize-covered  table  a  cloth  was  laid, 
and  on  it  stood  a  small  crowded  tray :  a  little 
teapot,  no  cosy,  some  rather  thick  slices  of  bread 
and  butter,  a  small  dish  of  marmalade,  a  small 
plate  and  cup  and  saucer  piled  together,  and  a 
larger  plate  on  which  lay  an  unfamiliar  fish, 
dark  brown,  curiously  dried  and  twisted  and 
giving  out  a  strong  salt  smoky  odour.  Miriam 
sat  uncomfortably  on  the  edge  of  a  cane  chair 
getting  through  her  bread  and  butter  and  tea 
and  one  mouthful  of  the  strong  dry  fish,  feeling, 
with  the  door  still  standing  wide,  like  a  traveller 
snatching  a  hasty  meal  at  a  buffet.  She  tried  to 
collect  her  thoughts  on  education.  Little 
querulous  excited  sounds  came  to  her  from 
across  the  wide  landing.  Presently  there  came 
the  swift  flountering  of  a  print  dress  across  the 
landing  and  Wiggerson,  long  and  willowy  and 
capless  with  a  cold  red  nose  and  large  red  hands, 
her  thin  small  head  looking  very  young  with  its 


24  HONEYCOMB 

revealed  bunch  of  untidy  hair,  appeared  in  the 
schoolroom  doorway  with  an  unconscious  smile 
hesitating  on  her  pale  lips  and  in  her  pale  blue 
eyes.  "  It  isn't  very  comfortable  for  you,"  she 
said  in  a  hurried  voice.  "  I  say,  my  word  "  ; 
she  went  to  the  chilly  grate  and  bent  down  for 
the  poker.  Miriam  glanced  at  the  solicitous 
droop  of  her  long  figure.  "  Stokes  hasn't  half 
laid  it,"  went  on  Wiggerson ;  "  if  I  were  you  I 
should  have  breakfast  in  my  room.  They  all  do, 
except  Mr.  Corrie  when  he's  at  home.  The 
other  young  lady  was  daily  ;  she  didn't  stop.  I 
should,  if  I  were  you,"  she  finished,  getting 
lightly  to  her  feet.  She  stood  between  the  door 
and  the  fireplace,  half  turned  away,  and  gazing 
into  space  with  her  pale  strong  eyes,  every  line 
in  her  long  pure  unconscious  figure  waiting  for 
Miriam's  response. 

"  Do  you  like  me,  Wiggerson  ?  "  said  Miriam 
within,  "  you'll  have  toothache  and  neuralgia 
with  that  thin  head.  You're  devoted  to  your  re- 
lations. You've  got  a  tiresome  sickly  old  mother. 
You'll  never  know  you're  a  servant. ..."  I  think 
perhaps  I  will,"  she  drawled,  clearing  her  throat. 

"  All  right,"  said  Wiggerson,  with  a  lit  face. 


"  riTtelT  them." 


CHAPTER    II 
i 

AS  Miriam  sat  having  tea  with  the  children  in 
-tA.  the  dining-room  the  brougham  drove  up  to 
the  door.  "  There's  someone  arriving,"  she  said, 
hoping  to  distract  the  attention  of  the  children 
from  her  fumblings  with  the  teapot  and  the  hot 
water  jug.  They  had  certainly  never  met  anyone 
who  did  not  know  how  to  pour  out  tea.  But 
they  were  taken  in  by  her  bored  tone. 

"  It's  only  Joey,"  said  Sybil,  frowning  tran- 
quilly, her  lively  penetrating  brown  eyes  fixed 
on  the  table  just  ahead  of  the  small  plate  nearly 
covered  by  a  mass  of  raspberry  jam  from  which 
she  ate  with  a  teaspoon  in  the  intervals  of  taking 
small  bites  from  a  thin  piece  of  bread  and  butter 
held  conveniently  near  her  mouth  as  she  sat  with 
one  elbow  on  the  table.  "  She's  always  here." 
She  looked  across  the  table  and  met  the  soft 
brown  eyes  of  the  boy.  They  had  been  wander- 
ing absently  about  her  square  pale  face  and  her 
short  straggling  red  hair  as  she  answered  Miriam. 

25 


26  HONEYCOMB 

"  Jenooshalet,"  he  said,  lisping  over  the  s  and 
smiling  meditatively. 

"  ]enoosk"  responded  Sybil,  and  they  both 
laughed  drunkenly. 

"  What  Vm  finking,"  said  the  boy,  putting  a 
teaspoonful  of  jam  into  his  teacup  and  speaking 
with  a  stammering  difficulty  that  drew  deep 
lines  in  his  thin  face ;  "  what's  worrying  me  is 
she'll  have  Rollo  after  tea  instead  of  us  .  .  . 
Vat's  what  I'm  finking." 

"  D'you  like  bays  ?  "  said  Sybil,  throwing  a 
fleeting  glance  in  the  direction  of  Miriam. 

"  Yes,  I  do,  I  think,"  said  Miriam  at  random, 
patting  her  hair  and  wondering  if  the  children 
had  been  to  Weymouth. 

"  Oh,  Boy"  Sybil  flung  her  arms  tightly 
round  her  thin  body  and  sat  grinning  at  her 
brother.  Her  old  blue  and  white  striped  overall, 
her  sparse  hair  and  the  ugly  large  gap  between 
her  two  large  front  teeth  seemed  to  set  her 
apart  from  her  surroundings.  For  a  moment  it 
seemed  to  Miriam  that  the  large  quiet  room 
looking  through  two  high  windows  on  to  a  stretch 
of  tree-shaded  lawn,  the  cheerful  little  spread  of 
delicate  white  china  at  one  end  of  the  long  table, 
the  preserves  and  cakes,  the  cress  sandwiches  and 


HONEYCOMB  27 

'  thin  bread  and  butter  were  all  there  for  her 
appreciation  alone,  the  children  somehow  pro- 
fane and  accidental,  having  no  right  to  be  there. 
But  they  had  been  in  these  surroundings,  the  girl 
for  twelve  the  boy  for  eight  years.  They  had 
never  known  anything  else.  For  years  life  had 
been  for  them  just  what  it  was  to-day — break- 
fast in  bed,  chirping  at  their  mother  from  the 
dressing-rooms  where  they  slept,  and  scolding  at 
Stokes  as  she  waited  on  their  toilet ;  jocularly 
and  impatiently  learning  lessons  from  little 
text-books  for  an  hour  or  so  in  the  morning, 
spending  their  afternoons  cantering  about  the 
commons  and  along  the  sandy  roadways  with  the 
groom  ;  driving  with  their  mother  or  walking 
with  the  governess  and  every  day  coming  in  at 
the  end  of  the  afternoon  to  this  cosy,  dainty 
grown-up  tea,  with  their  strange  untroubled 
brooding  faces.  They  would  grow  up  and  be 
exactly  like  their  parents.  They  did  not  know 
anything  about  their  fate.  It  was  a  kind  of 
prison.  Perhaps  they  knew.  Perhaps  that  was 
what  they  were  always  brooding  over.  No,  they 
did  not  mind.  Their  musings  were  tranquil. 
They  were  waiting.  They  had  silent  conversa- 
tions all  the  time.    To  be  with  them  after  being 


28  HONEYCOMB 

so  long  with  the  straining,  determined,  secretly 
ambitious  children  at  Banbury  Park  was  a  great 
relief  .  .  .  the  way  they  moved  their  heads  and 
used  their  hands  .  .  .  the  boy's  hands  were 
wonderful,  the  palest  fine  brown  silk,  quick 
eloquent  little  claws,  promising  understanding 
and  support.  Fine  little  hands  and  steady  gentle 
brown  eyes. 

"  Bays." 

"Bright  bays." 

"  Roans." 

"  Strawberry  roans." 

"  Chestnuts" 

"  Chestnut  bays." 

The  children  sat  facing  each  other,  each  with 
clasped  hands,  and  eyes  lit  with  dreams.  Miriam 
listened.  Bay,  then,  must  be  that  curious  liver 
colour  that  was  neither  brown  nor  chestnut. 

"  Our  ponies  are  bay,"  said  Sybil  quickly,  with 
flushed  face.  "  Boy's  and  mine,  the  brougham 
and  victoria  horses  are  chestnut  bays  and  we've 
got  two  dogs,  a  whippet  bitch,  she's  in  the  stables 
now,  and  a  Great  Dane ;  I'm  going  to  have  a 
Willoughby  pug  pup  on  my  birthday." 


HONEYCOMB  29 


Mrs.  Corrie  was  standing  in  the  hall  when  the 
little  tea-party  came  out  of  the  dining-room. 
She  raised  her  head  and  stood  shaped  in  the  well- 
cut  lines  of  her  long  brown  and  fawn  check  coat 
and  skirt  against  the  bead  curtain  that  led  to  the 
drawing-room,  looking  across  at  them.  The  boy 
tottered  blindly  across  the  hall  with  arms  out- 
stretched. "  Oh,  Rollo,  Rollo,"  he  said  brokenly, 
as  he  reached  her,  pressing  his  hands  up  against 
her  grey  suede  waistcoat  and  his  face  into  her 
skirt,  "  are  we  going  to  h — ave  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Corrie  began  singing  in  a  thin  laughing 
voice,  taking  the  boy  by  the  wrists. 

"  No,  no,"  he  said  sharply,  "  let  me  hold  you  a 
minute."  But  Mrs.  Corrie  danced,  forcing  his 
steps  as  he  pressed  against  her.  Up  and  down 
the  hall  they  capered  while  Sybil  pranced  round 
them  whirling  her  skirts  and  clapping  her  hands. 
Miriam  sank  into  a  settee.  The  cold  March 
sunlight  streaming  in  through  the  thinly  curtained 
windows  painted  the  sharply  bobbing  figures  in 
faint  shadows  on  the  wall  opposite  her. 


30  HONEYCOMB 

3 

When  the  dancers  were  breathless  the  little 
party  strayed  into  the  drawing-room.  Presently 
they  were  gathered  at  the  piano.  Mrs.  Corrie 
sat  on  a  striped  ottoman  and  peering  closely 
picked  out  the  airs  of  songs  that  made  Miriam 
stare  in  amazement.  They  all  sang.  Slowly  and 
stumblingly  with  many  gasps  of  annoyance  from 
Mrs.  Corrie  and  the  children  violently  assaulting 
each  other  whenever  either  of  them  got  ahead  of 
the  halting  accompaniment,  they  sang  through 
all  the  songs  in  an  album  with  a  brightly  decorated 
paper  cover.  But  in  their  performance  there  was 
no  tune,  no  rhythm,  and  the  words  spoken  out 
slowly  and  separately  were  intolerable  to  her. 
One  song  they  sang  three  times.    Its  chorus 

Stiboo — stitw, 
Sti-ibbety-00 
Sti-ibbety-bou, 
Stibft", 

which  Sybil  could  sing  without  the  piano  with  an 
extraordinary  flourishing  rapidity,  pirouetting 
as  she  sang,  they  attacked  again  and  again, 
slowly  and  waveringly,  fitting  the  syllables  note 
by  note  into  the  printed  line  of  disconnected 


HONEYCOMB  31 

jerkily  tailed  quavers.  .  .  .  They  thought  this 
was  music.  Encouraged  at  last  by  the  fervour  of 
the  halting  performance  Miriam  found  herself 
seated  at  the  piano  attacking  the  score.  They 
went  through  the  songs  from  the  beginning, 
three  thin  blissful  wavering  tremulous  voices, 
with  a  careful  perfect  monotony  of  emphasis, 
uninfluenced  by  any  variation  of  accent  or  in- 
flection introduced  by  Miriam  into  the  accom- 
paniment. Looking  round  as  they  reached  the 
end  she  saw  flushed  rapt  faces  with  happy 
eyes  gleaming  through  the  gathering  twilight. 
They  smiled  at  her  as  they  sang.  When  they  had 
finished  they  lit  the  piano  candles  and  sang 
"  Stiboo  "  once  more. 

4 

"  Sti-boo,  stibee,  sti-ibbety-oo,  sti-ibbety  boo, 
stibee,"  sang  Miriam,  getting  into  the  large 
square  bodice  of  her  silkette  evening  dress.  Its 
great  oblong  box-like  elbow  sleeves  more  than 
filled  the  mirror  as  she  stood.  They  were 
stiffened  with  stout  muslin,  and  stood  squarely 
out  from  shoulder  to  elbow,  so  that  the  little 
band  of  silk  edged  with  a  piping  of  salmon  pink 
velveteen  which  held  them  round  the  arm  just 


32  HONEYCOMB 

above  the  elbow  could  only  be  seen  when  she 
raised  her  arms.  The  piping  was  repeated  round 
the  square  neck  of  her  bodice,  cutting  in  front 
across  the  bust  just  below  the  collar  bone  and  at 
the  back  just  above  her  shoulder  blades.  She 
sang  the  little  refrain  at  intervals,  until  her  toilet 
was  completed  by  the  pinning  of  a  small  salmon 
pink  velvet  bow  against  the  left  side  of  the  hard 
mass  of  her  coiled  hair  and  went  humming  down- 
stairs into  the  hall.  The  soles  of  her  new  patent 
leather  shoes  felt  pleasantly  smooth  against  the 
thick  carpet.  She  went  across  the  hall  to  prop 
a  foot  against  the  fender  and  take  one  more 
reassuring  look  at  the  little  disc  of  steel  beads 
adorning  her  toe.    "  Stiboo " 

"  Won't  you  come  in  here  ?  "  said  a  soft 
staccato  bass  voice,  a  woman's  voice,  but  deep 
and  rounded  like  the  voice  of  a  deep-chested 
watch-dog  barking  single  soft  notes  after  a 
furious  outbreak. 

Miriam  looked  round.  Wiggerson  was  lighting 
the  big  lamp  in  the  dining-room,  peering  up 
under  the  rose-coloured  shade.  "  In  here," 
repeated  the  deep  voice,  smiling,  and  Miriam's 
eyes  discovered  that  the  small  door  set  back 
between  the  dining-room   and   the  window  on 


HONEYCOMB  33 

the  left  side  of  the  hall  door  was  open,  showing 
part  of  a  curious  soft  brown  room  ;  a  solid  brown 
leather  covered  secretaire,  with  a  revolving  chair 
between  its  pillars  of  drawers,  set  back  in  the  bow 
of  a  small  window,  a  little  bronze  lamp  with  a 
plain  buff-coloured  shade  standing  near  a  pile  of 
large  volumes  on  the  secretaire,  a  piece  of  wall 
covered  with  a  dark  silky-looking  brown  paper 
shining  in  the  glow  of  an  invisible  fire.  She  went 
forward  across  the  hall  into  the  room  with  a 
polite  pleased  hesitating  smile.  There  was  a 
faint  rich  exciting  odour  in  the  warm  little 
room  .  .  .  cigars  .  .  .  leather  ...  a  sort  of 
deep  freedom.  The  rest  of  the  house  seemed 
suddenly  far  away.  Coloured  drawings  of  houses 
on  the  little  brown  walls,  two  enormous  deep 
low  leather  arm-chairs  drawn  up  on  either  side 
of  an  enormous  fire,  a  littered  mantelshelf.  "  I 
saw  you  froo  the  crack,"  said  a  lady,  fitted 
deeply  into  one  of  the  large  chairs.  She  held  out 
a  small  hand  when  Miriam  was  near  enough  to 
take  it  and  said  softly  and  lazily,  "  You're  the 
new  guvnis,  aren't  you  ?    I'm  Joey  Banks." 

"  Yes,  I  came  yesterday,"  said  Miriam  serenely. 

Sinking  into  the  second  arm-chair  she  crossed 
her    knees    and    beamed    into    the    fire.      What 


34  HONEYCOMB 

perfect  security.  .  .  .  She  turned  to  Mr.  Corrie, 
unknown  and  mysteriously  away  somewhere  in 
London  to  thank  him  for  setting  her  here,  pro- 
tected from  the  whole  world  in  the  deeps  of  his 
study  chair — all  the  worry  and  the  noise  and  the 
fussing  people  shut  away.  If  suddenly  he  came 
in  she  would  not  thank  him,  but  he  would  know. 
He  would  be  sitting  in  the  other  arm-chair,  and 
she  would  say,  "  What  do  you  think  about  every- 
thing ?  "  Not  so  much  to  hear  what  he  thought, 
but  because  some  of  his  thoughts  would  be  her 
thoughts.  Thought  was  the  same  in  everybody 
who  thought  at  all.  She  would  sit  back  and  rest 
and  hear  an  understanding  voice.  He  might  be 
heavy  and  fat.  But  a  leading  Q.C.  must  have 
thoughts  .  .  .  and  he  had  been  thin  once  .  .  . 
and  there  were  those  books  .  .  .  and  he  would 
read  newspapers ;  perhaps  too  many  newspapers. 
He  would  know  almost  at  once  that  she  thought 
he  read  too  many  newspapers.  She  would  have 
to  conceal  that  to  hear  the  voice  going  on  and 
leaving  her  undisturbed. 

5 
Of  course  people  like  this  wore  evening  dress 
every  day.     You  could  only  rest  and  think  and 


-HONEYCOMB  35 

talk  and  be  happy  without  collars  and  sleeves — 
with  the  cool  beaded  leather  against  one's  neck 
and  arms  in  the  firelight.  .  .  . 

She  gazed  familiarly  into  her  companion's 
eyes  taking  in  her  soft  crimson  silk  evening  dress 
with  its  wide  folded  belt  of  black  velvet  and  the 
little  knots  of  black  about  the  square  sleeves,  as 
the  eyes  smiled  long  and  easily  into  hers  .  .  . 
the  smile  of  one  of  the  girls  at  the  Putney  school, 
the  same  dark  fringed  caressing  smiling  eyes  set 
in  delicately  bulging  pale  brown  cheeks,  the  same 
little  frizz  of  dark  hair.  She  felt  for  the  name, 
but  could  only  recall  the  sense  of  the  girl  as  she 
had  sat,  glints  of  fear  and  hard  watchfulness  in 
the  beautiful  eyes,  trying  to  copy  her  neighbour's 
exercise.  This  girl's  dull  hair  was  fluffed  cloudily, 
and  there  was  no  uneasiness  in  the  eyes.  Prob- 
ably she  too  had  been  a  duffer  at  school  and  had 
had  to  crib  things.  But  she  had  left  all  that 
behind  and  her  smile  was — perfect. 

"  You  look  like  an  Oriental  princess,"  said 
Miriam,  gazing. 

Joey  flushed  and  smiled  more  deeply,  but 
without  making  the  smallest  movement. 

"  Do  I,  weally  ?  " 

"  Exactly,"  said  Miriam,  keeping  her  own  pose 


36  HONEYCOMB 

with  difficulty.  She  knew  she  had  flung  up  her 
head  and  spoken  emphatically.  But  the  girl  was 
such  a  wonderful  effect — she  wanted  her  to  be 
able  to  see  herself  .  .  .  she  was  not  quite  of  the 
same  class  as  the  Corries,  or  different,  somehow. 
Miriam  gazed  on.  Raising  the  large  black 
cushion  a  little,  turning  her  head  and  pressing 
her  cheek  into  it,  her  eyes  still  on  Miriam's,  Joey 
laughed  a  short  contralto  gurgle,  bringing  the 
sharp  dimples  and  making  her  cheeks  bulge 
slightly  on  either  side  of  the  chin. 

"  I  brought  it  in  from  Rollo's  room,"  she  said. 
"  I  like  bein'  in  here.  Rollo  never  comes  in  ;  but 
she  always  has  a  fire  in  here  when  she's  got  people 
stoppin'.  You  can  pop  in  here  whenever  you 
like  when  Felix  isn't  at  home.   It's  jolly.   I  like  it." 

Miriam  looked  into  the  fire  and  thought. 
Joey,  too,  liked  talking  to  Mr.  Corrie  in  his  room 
when  he  was  not  there.  He  must  be  one  of  those 
charming  sort  of  men,  rather  weak,  who  went  on 
liking  people.  Joey  was  evidently  an  old  friend 
of  the  family  and  still  liked  him.  She  evidently 
liked  even  to  mention  his  name.  He  couldn't  be 
really  anything  much  ...  or  perhaps  Joey  didn't 
really  know  him  at  all.  Joey  did  not  live  there. 
She  came  and  went. 


a 


HONEYCOMB  37 

Of  course  you  haven't  seen  Felix  yet,  have 


?  » 


you 

"  No." 


Joey  straightened  her  head  on  her  pillow. 

"  It's  not  the  least  use  me  tryin'  to  describe 
him  to  you,"  she  breathed  in  broken  tones. 

Miriam  struggled  uneasily  with  her  thoughts 
...  a  leading  Q.C. — about  forty.  ..."  Oh, 
do  try,"  she  said,  a  little  fearfully  .  .  .  how 
vulgar  .  .  .  just  like  a  housemaid  ...  no ;  Wig- 
gerson  would  never  have  said  such  a  thing,  nor 
asked  at  all.  It  was  treachery  to  Mr.  Corrie. 
If  Joey  said  anything  more  about  him  she  would 
never  be  able  to  speak  to  him  freely. 

"  He's  divine,"  said  Joey,  smiling  into  the  fire. 

How  nice  of  Joey  to  be  so  free  with  her  and 
want  her  to  like  him  too  .  .  .  the  gong.  They 
both  rose  and  peered  into  the  little  strip  of 
mirror  in  the  small  overmantel  .  .  .  divine  might 
mean  anything  .  .  .  divine  ...  oh,  quite  too 
utterly  too- too  .  .  .  greenery-yellery  —  Gros- 
venor-gallery — foot-in-the-grave  young  man. 


CHAPTER    III 
i 

THE  next  day  the  ground  was  powdered  with 
snow.  Large  snowflakes  were  hurrying 
through  the  air  driving  to  and  fro  on  a  harsh 
wind.  The  wind  snored  round  the  house  like 
a  flame  and  bellowed  in  the  chimneys.  An 
opened  window  let  in  the  cold  air  and  the  smell 
of  the  snow.  No  sound  came  from  the  woods. 
The  singing  of  the  birds  and  the  faint  sound  of 
the  woods  had  gone. 

But  when  Miriam  left  her  room  to  go  across 
to  the  schoolroom  and  wait  for  the  children  she 
found  the  spring  in  the  house.  The  landing  was 
bright  with  the  light  streaming  through  many 
open  doors.  Rooms  were  being  prepared.  On 
a  large  tray  on  the  landing  table  lay  a  mass  of 
spring  flowers  and  little  flowered  bowls  of  many 
shapes  and  sizes  filled  with  fresh  water.  Stokes 
and  Wiggerson  were  fluttering  in  and  out  of  the 
rooms  carrying  frilled  bed-linen,  lace-edged  towels 
and  flowered  bed-spreads. 

38 


HONEYCOMB  39 

People  with  money  could  make  the  spring 
come  as  soon  as  the  days  lengthened.  Clear 
bright  rooms,  bright  clean  paint,  soft  coloured 
hangings,  spring  flowers  in  the  bright  light  on 
landings.  The  warmth  from  stoves  and  fires 
seemed  as  if  it  came  from  the  sun.  Its  glow 
changed  suddenly  to  the  glow  of  sunlight.  It 
drew  the  scent  of  the  flowers  into  the  air.  And 
with  the  new  scent  of  the  new  flowers  something 
was  moving  and  leaping  and  dancing  in  the  air. 
Outside  the  wintry  weather  might  go  on  and  on 
afr  though  the  spring  would  never  come. 

In  a  dull  cheap  villa  there  might  be  a  bunch  of 
violets  in  a  bowl  on  a  whatnot.  SnufBng  very  close 
you  could  feel  the  tide  of  spring  wash  through 
your  brain.  But  only  in  the  corner  where  the 
violets  were.  In  cold  rooms  upstairs  you  could 
remember  the  violets  and  the  spring  ;  but  the 
spring  did  not  get  into  the  house. 

There  was  an  extraordinary  noise  going  on 
downstairs.  Standing  inside  the  schoolroom 
door  Miriam  listened.  Joey's  contralto  laugh 
coming  up  in  gusts,  the  sound  of  dancing  feet, 
the  children  shouting  names,  Mrs.  Corrie  repeat- 
ing them  in  her  laughing  wavering  chalky  voice. 
Joey ;    certainly  Joey  was   not   dancing   about. 


4©  HONEYCOMB 

She  was  probably  sitting  on  the  sofa  watching 
them,  and  thinking.  Fancy  their  being  so  excited 
about  people  coming.  Just  like  any  ordinary 
people.  She  went  into  the  schoolroom  saying 
over  the  names  to  herself.  "  Melie  to-day  .  .  . 
Dad  and  Mr.  Staple-Craven  to-morrow  .  .  .  the 
Bean-pole  for  Sunday  .  .  .  someone  they  knew 
very  well.  It  might  be  either  a  tall  man  or  a  tall 
woman.  .  .  .  They  made  the  house  spring-like 
because  people  were  coming.  Would  the  people 
notice  that  the  house  was  spring-like  ?  Would 
they  realise  ?  People  did  not  seem  to  realise 
anything.  They  would  patronise  the  flowers  .  .  . 
they  ought  to  feel  wild  with  joy  ;  join  hands  and 
dance  round  the  flowers. 

At  lunch  time  the  door  at  the  far  end  of  the 
dining-room  stood  open  showing  the  shrouded 
length  of  a  billiard-table,  and  beyond  it  at  the 
far  end  in  the  gloom  a  squat  oak  chimney-piece 
littered  with  pipes  and  other  small  objects.  The 
light,  even  from  the  overcast  sky,  came  in  so 
brilliantly  that  the  holland  cover  looked  almost 
white.  There  must  be  several  windows ;  perhaps 
three.  What  a  room  to  have,  just  for  a  billiard- 
room.  A  quiet,  mannish  room,  waiting  until  it 
was  wanted,   the  pockets  of  the  table  bulging 


HONEYCOMB  41 

excitingly  under  the  cover,  the  green  glass 
supports  under  the  squat  round  stoutly  spind- 
ling legs,  a  bit  of  a  huge  armchair  showing  near 
the  fireplace,  the  end  of  a  sofa,  the  green 
shaded  lamps  low  over  the  table,  the  dark  un- 
tidy mantelpiece,  tobacco,  books,  talks,  billiards. 
In  there  too  the  spring  flowers  stood  ready  on 
the  table.  They  would  be  put  somewhere  on  the 
wide  dark  mantel,  probably  on  a  corner  out  of  the 
way.  "  We  used  to  play  table  billiards  at  home," 
said  Miriam  at  random,  longing  to  know  what 
part  the  billiard-room  played  in  the  week-end. 

"Billy-billy,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie,  "oh,  we'll 
have  some  fun.    We'll  all  play." 

"  It  was  such  a  bore  stretching  the  webbing," 
said  Miriam  critically,  avoiding  Sybil's  eager 
eyes. 

"  It  must  have  been — but  how  awfully  jolly  to 
have  billiards.  I  simply  adaw  billiards,"  said 
Joey  fervently. 

"  Such  a  fearful  business  getting  them  abso- 
lutely taut,"  pursued  Miriam,  feeling  how  much 
the  cream  caramel  was  enhanced  by  the  sight  of 
the  length,  beyond  the  length  of  the  dining-room, 
of  that  bright  long  heavy  room.  She  imagined 
it  lit   and  people  walking  about   amongst   the 


42  HONEYCOMB 

curious  lights  and  shadows  with  cues — and 
cigarettes ;  quiet  intent  faces.  Englishmen. 
Did  the  English  invent  billiards  ? 

"  Poor  old  Joey.     Wish  you  weren't  going  to 
the  dentist.      You  won't  be  here  when   Melie 


comes." 


"  Don't  mind  the  dentist  a  scrap.  I'm  looking 
forward  to  it.    I  shall  see  Melie  to-night." 

She  doesn't  like  her,  thought  Miriam  ;  people 
being  together  is  awful ;  like  the  creaking  of 
furniture. 

2 

Melie  arrived  an  hour  before  dinner  time. 
Miriam  heard  Mrs.  Corrie  taking  her  into  the 
room  next  to  her  own  with  laughter  and  many 
phrases.  A  panting,  determined  voice,  like  a 
voice  out  of  a  play,  the  thick,  smooth,  rather 
common  voice  of  a  fair-haired  middle-aged  lady 
in  a  play  kept  saying,  "  The  pores,  my  dear.  I 
must  open  my  pores  after  the  journey.  I'm 
choked  with  it." 

Presently  Melie's  door  closed  and  Mrs. 
Corrie  tapped  and  put  her  head  inside  Miriam's 
door.  "  She's  goin'  to  have  a  steam  bath  on  her 
floor,  got  an  injarubber  tent  on  the  floor  and  a 


HONEYCOMB  43 

spirit  lamp.    She's  gettin'  inside  it.    Isn't  she  an 
old  cure  !  " 

"  She's  thinking  more  about  her  food  than 
anything  they're  saying ;  she  doesn't  really  care 
about  them  a  bit,"  thought  Miriam  at  dinner, 
gazing  again  and  again  across  at  Mrs.  Staple- 
Craven's  fat  little  shape  seated  opposite  herself 
in  a  tightly  fitting  pale  blue  silk  dress  whose 
sleeves  had  tiny  puffs  instead  of  the  fashionable 
large  square  sleeves.  Watching  her  cross  un- 
conscious face,  round  and  blue-eyed  and  all  pure 
"  milk  and  roses,"  her  large  yellow  head  with  a 
tiny  twist  of  hair  standing  up  like  the  handle  of 
a  jug,  exactly  on  the  top  of  the  crown,  her  fat 
white  hands  with  thick  soft  curly  fingers  and 
bright  pink  nails,  the  strange  blue  stare  that  went 
from  thing  to  thing  on  the  table,  hearing  her 
thick  smooth  heedless  voice,  with  its  irrelevant 
assertions  and  statements,  Miriam  wondered 
how  she  had  come  to  be  Mrs.  Staple-Craven. 
She  was  no  more  Mrs.  Staple-Craven  than  she 
was  sitting  at  Mrs.  Corrie's  table.  She  was  not 
really  there.  She  was  just  getting  through,  and 
neither  Mrs.  Corrie  nor  Joey  really  knew  this.  At 
the  same  time  she  was  too  stout  and  gluttonous 
to  be  still  really  a  fairy  in  Devonshire.     Where 


44  HONEYCOMB 

was  she  ?  What  did  she  think  ?  She  went  on 
and  on  because  she  was  afraid  someone  might 
ask  her  that. 

Although  Joey  had  been  to  have  her  hair  dyed 
and  had  not  been  to  the  dentist  at  all  she  was  not 
pretending  nearly  so  much.  She  was  a  little 
ashamed.  Why  had  she  said  she  was  going  to 
the  dentist  and  come  back  with  sheeny  bronzy 
hair,  ashamed  ?  She  had  been  worrying  about 
her  looks.  Perhaps  she  was  more  than  twenty- 
one.  Nan  Babington  said  no  one  need  mind 
being  twenty-one  if  they  were  engaged,  but  if 
not  it  was  a  frantic  age  to  be.  Joey  was  a  poor 
worried  thing,  just  like  any  other  girl. 

3 

When  they  were  safely  ensconced  round  the 
drawing-room  fire  Mrs.  Staple-Craven  sat  very 
upright  in  her  chair  with  her  plump  little  hands 
on  either  arm  and  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  blaze. 
Joey  pleading  toothache  had  said  good  night  and 
gone  away  with  her  coffee.  There  was  a  moment's 
silence. 

"  You'd  never  think  I'd  been  fairly  banged  to 
death  by  the  spirits  last  night,"  said  Mrs.  Staple- 
Craven    in    a    thick    flat    reproachful    narrative 


HONEYCOMB  45 

tone.  It  sounds  like  a  housekeeper  giving  an 
order  to  a  servant  she  knows  won't  obey 
her,  thought  Miriam,  swishing  more  comfort- 
ably into  her  chair.  If  Mrs.  Craven  would  talk 
there  would  be  no  need  to  do  anything. 

"  Ah-ha,"  said  Mrs.  Craven,  still  looking  at 
the  fire,  "  something's  pleasing  Miss  Henderson." 

"  Is  she  rejoicin'  ?  Tell  us  about  the  spirits, 
Melie.  I'm  deadly  keen.  Deadly.  She  mustn't 
be  too  delighted.  I've  told  her  she's  not  to  get 
engaged." 

"  Engaged  ?  "  enquired  Mrs.  Craven,  of  the 
fire. 

"  She's  promised,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie,  turning 
off  the  lights  until  only  one  heavily  shaded  lamp 
was  left,  throwing  a  rosy  glow  over  Melie's  com- 
pact form. 

"  She  won't,  if  she's  not  under  the  star,  to  be 
sure." 

"  Oh,  she  mustn't  think  about  stars.  Why 
should  she  marry  ?  " 

Miriam  looked  a  little  anxiously  from  one  to 
the  other. 

"  You've  shocked  her,  Julia,"  said  Mrs.  Staple- 
Craven.  "  Never  mind  at  all,  my  dear.  You'll 
marry  if  you're  under  the  star." 


46  HONEYCOMB 

"  Star,  star,  beautiful  star,  a  handsome  one 
with  twenty  thousand  a  year,"  sang  Mrs.  Corrie. 

"  I  don't  think  a  man  has  any  right  to  be  hand- 
some," said  Miriam  desperately — she  must  man- 
age to  keep  the  topic  going.  These  women  were 
so  terrible — they  filled  her  with  fear.  She  must 
make  them  take  back  what  they  had  said. 

"  A  handsome  man's  much  handsomer  than  a 
pretty  woman,"  said  Mrs.  Craven. 

"  It's  cash,  cash,  cash — that's  what  it  is," 
chanted  Mrs.  Corrie  softly. 

"  Oh,  do  you  ?  "  said  Miriam.  "  I  think  a 
handsome  man's  generally  so  weak." 

Mrs.  Craven  stared  into  the  fire. 

"  You  take  the  oi*e  who's  got  the  ooftish,  my 
friend,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie. 

"  But  you  say  I'm  not  to  marry." 

"  You  shall  marry  when  my  poor  little  old 
kiddies  are  grown  up.  We'll  find  you  a  very  nice 
one  with  plenty  of  money." 

"  Then  you  don't  think  marriage  is  a  failure," 
said  Miriam,  with  immense  relief. 

Mrs.  Corrie  leaned  towards  her  with  laughter 
in  her  clear  light  eyes.  It  seemed  to  fill  the 
room.    "  Have  some  more  cony-drink  ?  ? 

"  No,  thanks,"  said  Miriam,  shivering. 


HONEYCOMB  47 

"  Sing  us  something — she  sings,  Melie — 
German  songs.    Isn't  she  no  end  clever  ?  ' 

"  Does  she  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Craven.  "  Yes.  She's 
got  a  singing  chin.  Sing  us  a  pretty  song,  my 
dear." 

As  she  fluttered  the  leaves  of  her  Schumann 
album  she  saw  Mrs.  Craven  sit  back  with  closed 
eyes,  and  Mrs.  Corrie  still  sitting  forward  in  her 
chair  with  her  hands  clasped  on  her  knees  gazing 
with  a  sad  white  face  into  the  flames. 

"  Ich  grolle  nicht,  und  wenn  das  Herz  auch 
bricht,"  sang  Miriam,  and  thought  of  Germany. 
Her  listeners  did  not  trouble  her.  They  would 
not  understand.  No  English  person  would  quite 
understand — the  need,  that  the  Germans  under- 
stood so  well — the  need  to  admit  the  beauty  of 
things  .  .  .  the  need  of  the  strange  expression 
of  music,  making  the  beautiful  things  more 
beautiful  and  of  words  when  they  were  together 
in  the  beauty  of  the  poems.  Music  and  poetry 
told  everything — whether  you  understood  the 
music  or  the  words — they  put  you  in  the  mood 
that  made  things  shine — then  heart-break  or 
darkness  did  not  matter.  Things  go  on  shining 
in  the  end  ;  German  landscapes  and  German 
sunshine  and  German   towns  were  full  of  this 


48  HONEYCOMB 

knowledge.  In  England  there  was  something 
besides — something  hard. 

"  'Menjous,  ain't  it  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Corrie,  as 
she  rose  from  the  piano. 

"  If  we  lived  aright  we  should  all  be  singing," 
said  Mrs.  Craven,  "  it's  natural." 


"  You  look  a  duck." 

Miriam  stood  still  at  the  top  of  the  stairs  and 
looked  down  into  the  hall.  Mrs.  Staple-Craven 
was  standing  under  the  largest  lamp  near  the 
fireplace  looking  up  at  a  tall  man  in  a  long  ulster. 
Grizzled  hair  and  a  long  face  with  a  long  pointed 
grizzled  beard — she  was  staring  up  at  him  with 
her  eyes  "  like  saucers  "  and  her  face  pink,  white, 
gold,  "  like  a  full  moon  " — how  awful  for  him 
.  .  .  he'd  come  down  from  town  probably  in  a 
smoking  carriage,  talking,  and  there  she  was  and 
he  had  to  say  something. 

"  I've  just  had  my  bath,"  said  Mrs.  Craven, 
without  altering  the  angle  of  her  gaze. 

"  You  look  a  duck,"  said  the  tall  man  fussily, 
half  turning  away. 

Standing  with  his  back  to  the  couple,  opening 
letters  at  the  hall  table  was  a  little  man  in  a  neat 


HONEYCOMB  49 

little  overcoat  with  a  silk  hat  tilted  back  on  his 
head.  His  figure  had  a  curious  crooked  jaunty 
appearance,  the  shoulders  a  little  crooked  and 
the  little  legs  slightly  bent.  "  It's  Mr.  Corrie," 
mused  Miriam,  moving  backwards  as  he  turned 
and  went  swiftly  out  banging  the  front  door 
behind  him.  "  He  looks  like  a  jockey  "  ;  she  got 
herself  back  into  her  room  until  the  hall  should 
be  clear.  "  He's  gone  down  to  the  stables."  She 
listened  to  the  quick  jerky  little  footsteps  crunch- 
ing along  the  gravel  outside  her  window. 

Soon  after  the  quick  little  steps  sounded  on 
the  stairs  and  the  children  shouted  from  their 
rooms.  A  door  was  opened  and  shut  and  for 
five  minutes  there  was  a  babel  of  voices.  Then 
the  steps  came  out  again  and  went  away  down 
the  passage  leading  off  the  landing  to  the  bath- 
room and  a  little  spare  room  at  the  further  end. 
They  passed  the  bathroom  and  the  door  of  the 
little  room  was  opened  and  shut  and  locked. 
Everything  was  silent  in  the  house,  but  from  the 
room  next  to  hers  came  the  sounds  of  Mr.  Craven 
plunging  quickly  about  and  blowing  and  clearing 
his  throat.    She  had  not  heard  him  come  up. 

When  at  last  she  came  downstairs  she  found 
the  whole   party   standing   talking   in   the   hall. 


50  HONEYCOMB 

The  second  gong  was  drowning  the  terrible 
voices,  leaving  nothing  but  gesticulating  figures. 
Presently  Mr.  Staple-Craven  was  standing  before 
her  with  Mrs.  Corrie,  and  her  hand  was  power- 
fully wrung  and  released  with  a  fussy  emphatic 
handshake  cancelling  the  first  impression.  Mr. 
Craven  made  some  remark  in  a  high  voice, 
lost  by  Miriam  as  Mr.  Corrie  came  across  to  her 
from  talking  to  Joey  under  a  lamp  and  took  her 
hand.  "  Let  me  introduce  your  host,"  he  said, 
keeping  her  hand  and  placing  it  on  his  arm  as  he 
turned  towards  the  dining-room,  "  and  take  you 
in  to  dinner." 

Miriam  went  across  the  hall  past  the  servants 
waiting  on  either  side  of  the  dining-room  door 
and  down  the  long  room  with  her  hand  on  the 
soft  coat  sleeve  of  a  neat  little  dinner  jacket  and 
her  footsteps  led  by  the  firm,  disconnected, 
jumpy  footsteps  of  the  little  figure  at  her  side. 
There  was  a  vague  crowd  of  people  coming  along 
behind.  "  Come  on,  everybody,"  Mrs.  Corrie 
had  pealed  delicately,  and  Mrs.  Craven  had  said 
in  a  thick  smooth  explanatory  voice,  "  Of  course 
she's  the  greatest  stranger." 

The  table  was  set  with  replicas  of  the  little 
groups  of  Venetian  wine  and  finger  glasses  and 


HONEYCOMB  51 

fine  silver  and  cutlery  that  had  accompanied 
Miriam's  first  sense  of  dining  and  when  she 
found  herself  seated  at  Mr.  Corrie's  left  hand 
opposite  Mrs.  Craven,  with  Joey  away  on  her 
left,  facing  Mr.  Craven  and  Mrs.  Corrie  now 
far  away  from  her  at  the  door  end  of  the  table,  it 
seemed  as  if  these  things  had  been  got  together 
only  for  the  use  of  the  men.  Why  were  women 
there  ?  Why  did  men  and  women  dine  together  ? 
She  would  have  liked  to  sit  there  and  watch  and 
listen,  but  not  to  dine — not  to  be  seen  dining 
by  Mr.  Corrie.  It  was  extraordinary,  this  muddle 
of  men  and  women  with  nothing  in  common. 
The  men  must  hate  it.  She  knew  he  did  not 
have  such  thoughts.  All  the  decanters  stood  in  a 
little  group  between  him  and  the  great  bowl  of 
flaring  purple  and  crimson  anemones  that  stood 
in  the  centre  of  the  table,  and  the  way  in  which 
he  said  when  her  soup  came,  "  Have  some 
Moselle,"  and  filled  her  glass,  compelled  her  to 
feel  welcome  to  share  the  ritual  of  the  feast. 
She  sat  with  bent  head  wrapped  and  protected, 
hearing  nothing  as  the  voices  sounded  about  the 
table  but  the  clear  sweet  narrow  rather  drawling 
tones  of  Mr.  Corrie's  voice.  She  could  hear  it 
talking  to  men,  on  racecourses,  talking  in  clubs, 


52  HONEYCOMB 

laughing  richly,  rather  drunkenly,  at  improper 
stories  in  club  smoking-rooms ;  dining,  talking 
and  lunching,  dining,  talking,  talking  every  day 
and  sitting  there  now,  wonderfully,  giving  her 
security.  She  knew  with  perfect  certainty  that 
nothing  painful  or  disagreeable  or  embarrassing 
could  come  near  her  in  his  presence.  But  he 
knew  nothing  about  her  ;  much  less  than  Wigger- 
son  knew. 

5 

Joey  felt  the  same,  of  course.  But  Joey  was 
laughing  and  talking  in  her  deep  voice  and  making 
eyes.  No,  it  was  not  the  same.  Joey  was  not 
happy. 

These  people  sitting  at  his  table  were  supposed 
to  be  friends.  But  they  knew  nothing  about  him. 
He  made  little  quiet  mocking  jokes  and  laughed 
and  kept  things  going.  The  Staple-Cravens  knew 
nothing  at  all  about  him.  Mrs.  Staple-Craven 
did  not  care  for  anybody.  She  looked  about  and 
always  spoke  as  if  she  were  answering  an  accusa- 
tion that  nobody  had  made — a  dressmaker  per- 
suading you  to  have  something  and  talking  on 
and  on  in  fat  tones  to  prevent  your  asking  the 
price.  .  .  .  Mr.  Craven  only  cared  for  himself. 
He  was  weak  and  pompous  and  fussy  with  a  silly 


HONEYCOMB  53 

elaborate  chivalrous  manner.  There  was  a 
stillness  round  the  table.  Miriam  felt  that  it 
centred  in  her  and  was  somehow  her  fault. 
Never  mind.  She  had  successfully  got  through 
whitebait  and  a  quail.  She  would  write  home 
about  the  quails  and  whitebait  and  the  guests 
and  say  nothing  about  her  own  silence — "  Mr. 
Staple-Craven  is  a  poet  .  .  ." 

"  Give  Melie  some  more  drink,  Percy,"  said 
Mrs.  Corrie.  "  It's  all  wrong  you  two  sittin' 
together." 

"  She  likes  to  sit  near  me,  don't  you,  my  duck  ?" 
said  Mr.  Craven,  looking  about  for  the  wine  and 
bowing  to  and  fro  from  his  hips. 

"  You've  been  away  so  long,"  murmured  Mr. 
Corrie.  "  What  sort  of  a  place  is  Balone  to  stay 
in  ?  " 

"  Oh,  nothing  of  a  place  in  itself,  nothing  of  a 
place.    Why  do  you  call  it  Balone  ?  " 

"  Isn't  that  right  ?  That's  right  enough. 
Come." 

Miriam  waited  eagerly,  her  eyes  on  Mr. 
Craven's  pink  face  with  the  grizzled  hair  above 
and  below  it.  How  perfectly  awful  he  must  look 
in  his  nightshirt,  she  thought,  and  flushed 
violently.     "  Balloyne,"  he  was  saying  carefully, 


54  HONEYCOMB 

showing  his  red  lips  and  two  rows  of  unnaturally 
even  teeth.  ..."  Oh,  Lord,  they  mean  Bologne." 
Both  men  were  talking  together.  "  Balloyne  is 
perfectly  correct ;  the  correct  pronunciation," 
said  Mr.  Craven  in  a  loud  testy  voice,  with  loose 
lips.  Mrs.  Craven  gazed  up  .  .  .  like  a  dis- 
tressed fish  .  .  .  into  his  flushed  face.  Mrs. 
Corrie  was  throwing  out  her  little  wavering 
broken  laughs.  Keeping  his  angry  voice  Mr. 
Craven  went  on.  Miriam  sat  eagerly  up  and 
glanced  at  Mr.  Corrie.  He  was  sitting  with  his 
lips  drawn  down  and  his  eyebrows  raised  .  .  . 
his  law-court  face.  .  .  .  Suddenly  his  face  re- 
laxed and  the  dark  boyish  brown  head  with  the 
clear  thoughtful  brow  and  the  gentle  kind  eyes 
turned  towards  her.  "  Let's  ask  Miss  Henderson. 
She  shall  be  umpire." 

6 

Miriam  carefully  enunciated  the  word.  The 
blood  sang  in  her  ears  as  everyone  looked  her 
way.  The  furniture  and  all  the  room  mimicked 
her.  What  did  it  matter,  after  all,  the  right 
pronunciation  ?  It  did  matter  ;  not  that  Balone 
was  wrong,  but  the  awfulness  of  being  able  to 
miss  the  right  sound  if  you  had  once  heard  it 


HONEYCOMB  55 

spoken.  There  was  some  awful  meaning  in  the 
way  English  people  missed  the  right  sound ;  all 
the  names  in  India,  all  the  Eastern  words.  How 
could  an  English  traveller  hear  hahreem,  and 
speak  it  hairum,  Aswan  and  say  Ass-ou-ann  ?  It 
made  them  miss  other  things  and  think  wrongly 
about  them.  "  That's  more  like  it,"  she  heard 
Mr.  Corrie  say.  There  was  sheeny  braiding 
round  the  edges  of  his  curious  little  coat.  "  Got 
you  there,  Craven,  got  you  there,"  he  was 
saying  somewhere  in  his  mind  ...  his  mind 
went  on  by  itself  repeating  things  wearily.  His 
small  austere  face  shone  a  little  with  dining  ;  the 
corners  of  his  thin  lips  slackened.  "  I  can  read 
all  your  thoughts.  None  of  you  can  disturb  my 
enjoyment  of  this  excellent  dinner ;  none  of 
you  can  enhance  it  "  .  .  .  but  he  was  not  quite 
conscious  of  his  thoughts.  Why  did  not  the 
others  read  them  ?  Perhaps  they  did.  Perhaps 
they  were  too  much  occupied  to  notice  what 
people  were  thinking.  Perhaps  in  society  people 
always  were.  The  Staple-Cravens  did  not  notice. 
But  they  were  neither  of  them  quite  sure  of  them- 
selves. Mrs.  Corrie  was  busy  all  the  time  dancing 
and  singing  somewhere  alone,  wistfully,  joey 
kept  throwing  her  smile  at  Mr.  Corrie — lounging 


56  HONEYCOMB 

a  little,  easily,  over  the  table  and  saying  in  her 
mind,  "  I  understand  you,  the  others  don't,  I  do," 
and  he  smiled  at  her,  broadened  the  smile  that  had 
settled  faintly  all  over  his  face,  now  and  again  in 
her  direction.  But  she  did  not  understand  him. 
"  Divine,"  perhaps  he  was,  or  could  be.  But  Joey 
did  not  know  him.  She  only  knew  that  he  had  a 
life  of  his  own  and  no  one  else  at  the  table  had 
quite  completely.  She  did  not  know  that  with 
all  his  worldly  happiness  and  success  and  self- 
control  he  was  miserable  and  lost  and  needing 
consolation  .  .  .  but  neither  did  he.  Perhaps 
he  never  would  ;  would  not  find  it  out  because 
he  had  so  many  thoughts  and  was  always  talking. 
So  he  thought  he  liked  Joey.  Because  she  smiled 
and  responded.  "  Jabez  Balfour,"  he  was  saying 
slowly,  savouring  the  words  and  smiling  through 
his  raised  wineglass  with  half  closed  eyes.  That 
was  for  Mr.  Staple-Craven ;  there  was  some 
exciting  secret  in  it.  Presently  they  would  be 
two  men  over  their  wine  and  nuts.  Mr.  Staple- 
Craven  took  this  remark  for  himself  at  once, 
scorning  the  women  with  a  thick  polite  insolence. 
His  lips  shot  out.  "  Ah,"  he  said  busily,  "  Jabez 
Balfour,  Jabez  Balfour;  ah,"  he  swung  from  side  to 
side  from  his  waist.     "  Let  me  see,  Jabez  .  .  ." 


HONEYCOMB  57 

"  The  Liberator  scheme,"  said  Mr.  Corrie 
interestedly  with  a  bright  young  eye.  "  They've 
got  'im  this  time  ;   fairly  got  'im  on  the  hop." 

Jabez  Balfour  ;  what  a  beautiful  name.  He 
could  not  have  done  anything  wrong.  There  was 
a  soft  glare  of  anger  in  Mr.  Corrie's  eyes ;  as  if 
he  were  accusing  Mr.  Staple-Craven  of  some 
crime,  or  everybody.  Perhaps  one  would  hear 
something  about  crime  ;  crime.  That's  crime — 
somebody  taking  down  a  book  and  saying  trium- 
phantly, "  that's  crime,"  and  people  talking 
excitedly  about  it,  in  the  warm,  at  dinners  .  .  . 
like  that  moment  at  Richmond  Park,  the  ragged 
man  with  panting  mouth,  running  .  .  .  the  quiet 
grass,  the  scattered  deer,  the  kindly  trees,  the 
gentlemen  with  triumphant  faces,  running  after 
him  ;  enough,  enough,  he  had  suffered  enough 
...  his  poor  face,  their  dreadful  faces.  He 
knew  more  than  they  did.  Crime  could  not  be 
allowed.  People  murdering  you  in  your  sleep. 
But  criminals  knew  that — the  running  man  knew. 
He  was  running  away  from  himself.  He  knew 
he  had  spoiled  the  grass  and  the  trees  and  the 
deer.  To  have  stopped  him  and  hidden  him  and 
let  him  get  over  it.  His  poor  face.  .  .  .  The 
awful  moment  of  standing  up  trying  to  say  or  do 


58  HONEYCOMB 

something,  feeling  so  weak,  trembling  at  the 
knees,  the  man's  figure  pelting  along  in  the  dis- 
tance, the  two  gentlemen  passing,  their  white 
waistcoats,  homes,  wives,  bathrooms,  stuffiness, 
indigestion.  .  .  . 

7 

"  It  comes  perfectly  into  line  with  Biblical 
records,  my  dear  Corrie :  a  single  couple,  two 
cells  originating  the  whole  creation." 

"  I'm  maintaining  that's  not  the  Darwinian 
idea  at  all.  It  was  not  a  single  couple,  but 
several  different  ones." 

"  We're  not  descended  from  monkeys  at  all. 
It's  not  natural,"  said  Mrs.  Craven  loudly,  across 
the  irritated  voices  of  the  men.  Their  faces  were 
red.  They  filled  the  room  with  inaccurate  phrases 
pausing  politely  between  each  and  keeping  up  a 
show  of  being  guest  and  host.  How  nice  of  them. 
But  this  was  how  cultured  people  with  incomes 
talked  about  Darwin. 

"  The  great  thing  Darwin  did,"  said  Miriam 
abruptly,  "  was  to  point  out  the  power  of 
environment  in  evolving  the  different  species — 
selecting." 

"That's    it,    that's    it!"   sang   Mrs.    Corrie. 


HONEYCOMB  59 

"  Let's  all  select  ourselves  into  the  droin'-room." 
"  Now  I've  offended  the  men  and  the  women 
too,"  thought  Miriam. 

8 

Mr.  Staple-Craven  joined  the  ladies  almost  at 
once.  He  came  in  leaving  the  door  open  behind 
him  and  took  a  chair  in  the  centre  of  the  fireside 
circle  and  sat  giving  little  gasps  and  sighs  of  satis- 
faction, spreading  his  hands  and  making  little 
remarks  about  the  colours  of  the  fire,  and  the 
shape  of  the  coffee  cups.  There  he  was  and  he 
would  have  to  be  entertained,  although  he  had 
nothing  at  all  to  say  and  was  puzzling  about 
himself  and  life  all  the  time  behind  his  involuntary- 
movements  and  polite  smiles  and  gestures.  Per- 
haps he  was  uneasy  because  he  knew  there  was 
someone  saying  all  the  time,  "  You're  a  silly 
pompous  old  man  and  you  think  yourself  much 
cleverer  than  you  are."  But  it  was  not  altogether 
that ;  he  was  always  uneasy,  even  when  he  was 
alone,  unless  he  was  rapidly  preparing  to  go  and 
be  with  people  who  did  not  know  what  he  was. 
If  he  had  been  alone  with  the  other  three  women 
he  would  have  forgotten  for  a  while  and  half- 
liked,  half-despised  them  for  their  affability. 


60  HONEYCOMB 

"  The  great  man's  always  at  work,  always  at 
work,"  he  said  suddenly,  in  a  desperate  sort  of 
way.  They  were  like  some  sort  of  needlework 
guild  sitting  round,  just  people,  in  the  end  ;  it 
made  the  surroundings  seem  quite  ordinary. 
The  room  fell  to  pieces ;  one  could  imagine  it 
being  turned  out,  or  all  the  things  being  sold  up 
and  dispersed. 

"  All  work  and  no  play,"  scolded  Mrs.  Craven, 
"  makes  Jack  .  .  ." 

Miriam  heard  the  swish  of  the  bead  curtain  at 
the  end  of  the  short  passage. 

"  Heah  he  is,"  smiled  Joey. 

"  A  miracle,"  breathed  Mrs.  Craven,  glancing 
round  the  circle.  Evidently  he  did  not  usually 
come  in. 

Mr.  Corrie  came  quietly  into  the  room  with 
empty  hands ;  in  the  clear  light  he  looked  older 
than  he  had  done  in  the  dining-room,  fuller  in 
the  face ;  grey  threads  showed  in  his  hair. 
Everyone  turned  towards  him.  He  looked  at  no 
one.  His  loose  little  smile  had  gone.  The 
straight  chair  into  which  he  dropped  with  a 
dreamy  careless  preoccupied  air  was  set  a 
little  back  from  the  fireside  circle.  No  one 
moved. 


HONEYCOMB  61 

"  Absorbed  the  evidence,  m'lud  ?  "  squeaked 
Mr.  Craven. 

"  Ah-m,"  growled  his  host,  clearing  his  throat. 

Why  can't  they  let  him  alone,  Miriam  asked 
herself,  and  leave  him  to  me,  added  her  mind 
swiftly.  She  sat  glaring  into  the  fire  ;  the  room 
had  resumed  its  strange  magic. 

9 

"  Do  you  think  it  is  wrong  to  teach  children 
things  you  don't  believe  yourself  ?  .  .  ."  said 
Miriam,  and  her  thoughts  rushed  on.  "  You're 
an  unbeliever  and  I'm  an  unbeliever  and  both  of 
us  despise  the  thoughts  and  opinions  of  '  people  ' ; 
you're  a  successful  wealthy  man  and  can  amuse 
yourself  and  forget ;  I  must  teach  and  presently 
die,  teach  till  I  die.  It  doesn't  matter.  I  can  be 
happy  for  a  while  teaching  your  children,  but 
you  know,  knowing  me  a  little  what  a  task  that 
must  be  ;  you  know  I  know  nothing  and  that  I 
know  that  nobody  knows  anything ;  comfort 
me.  .  .  ." 

She  seemed  to  traverse  a  great  loop  of  time 
waiting  for  the  answer  to  her  hurried  question. 
Mr.  Corrie  had  come  into  the  drawing-room 
dressed  for  dinner  and  sat  down  near  her  with  a 


62  HONEYCOMB 

half-smile  as  she  closed  the  book  she  was  reading 
and  laid  it  on  her  knee  and  looked  up  with  sen- 
tences from  "  A  Human  Document "  ringing 
through  her,  and  by  the  time  her  question  was 
out  she  knew  it  was  unnecessary.  But  she  had 
flung  it  out  and  it  had  reached  him  and  he  had 
read  the  rush  of  thoughts  that  followed  it.  She 
might  as  well  have  been  silent ;  better.  She  had 
missed  some  sort  of  opportunity.  What  would 
have  happened  if  she  had  been  quite  silent  ? 
His  answer  was  swift,  but  in  the  interval  they 
had  said  all  they  would  ever  have  to  say  to  each 
other.  "  Not  in  the  least,"  he  said,  with  a  gentle 
decisiveness. 

She  flashed  thanks  at  him  and  sighed  her  relief. 
He  did  not  mind  about  religion.  But  how  far 
did  he  understand  ?  She  had  made  him  think 
she  was  earnest  about  the  teaching  children  some- 
thing. He  would  be  very  serious  about  their 
being  "  decently  turned  out."  She  was  utterly 
incapable  of  turning  them  out  for  the  lives  they 
would  have  to  lead.  She  envied  and  pitied  and 
despised  those  lives.  Envied  the  ease  and 
despised  the  ignorance,  the  awful  cruel  struggle 
of  society  that  they  were  growing  up  for — no 
joy,  a  career  and  sport  for  the  boy,  clubs,  the 


HONEYCOMB  63 

weary  dyspeptic  life  of  the  blase  man,  and  for 
the  girl  lonely  cold  hard  bitter  everlasting 
"  social  "  life.  She  envied  the  ease.  Mr.  Corrie 
must  know  she  envied  the  ease.  Did  he  know 
that  she  tried  to  hide  her  incapacity  in  order  to 
go  on  sharing  the  beauty  and  ease  ? 

"  It  is  so  difficult,"  she  pursued  helplessly,  and 
saw  him  wonder  why  she  went  on  with  the 
subject  and  try  to  read  the  title  of  her  book. 
She  did  not  mean  to  tell  him  that.  That  would 
lead  them  away  ;  just  nowhere.  If  only  she  could 
tell  him  everything  and  get  him  to  understand. 
But  that  would  mean  admitting  that  she  was 
letting  the  children's  education  slide ;  and  he 
was  sitting  there,  confidently,  so  beautifully 
dressed  for  dinner,  paying  her  forty  pounds  a 
year  not  to  let  the  children's  education  slide.  .  .  . 
"  It's  an  opportunity ;  he's  come  in  here,  and 
sat  down  to  talk  to  me.  I  ought  to  tell  him  ;  I'm 
cheating."  But  he  had  looked  for  the  title  of 
her  book,  and  would  have  talked,  about  anything? 
if  she  could  have  talked.  He  had  a  little  air  of 
deference,  quiet  kind  indulgent  deference. 
His  neat  little  shoulders,  bent  as  he  sat  turned 
towards  her,  were  kind.  "  I'm  too  young,"  she 
cried  in  her  mind.    If  only  she  could  say  aloud, 


64  HONEYCOMB 

"  I'm  too  young — I  can't  do  it,"  and  leave  every- 
thing to  him. 

Or  leave  the  children  out  altogether  and  talk 
to  him,  man  to  man,  about  the  book.  She  could 
not  do  that.  Everything  she  said  would  hurt  her, 
poisoned  by  the  hidden  sore  of  her  incapability 
to  do  anything  for  his  children.  He  ought  to 
send  them  to  school.  But  they  would  not  go  to  a 
school  where  anything  real  was  taught.  Science, 
strange  things  about  India  and  Ireland,  the 
aesthetic  movement,  Ruskin ;  making  things 
beautiful.  How  far  away  all  that  seemed,  that 
sacred  life  of  her  old  school — forgotten.  The 
thought  of  it  was  like  a  breath  in  the  room.  Did 
he  know  of  these  things  ?  That  sort  of  school 
would  take  the  children  away,  out  of  this  kind  of 
society  life.  Make  them  think — for  themselves. 
He  did  not  think  or  approve  of  thought.  Even 
the  hard  Banbury  Park  people  would  be  nearer  to 
him  than  any  of  those  things.  .  .  .  That  was 
the  world.  Nearly  everyone  seemed  to  be  in  it. 
He  was  whimsically  trying  to  read  the  title  of  her 
book  with  the  little  half-smile  he  shared  with  the 
boy. 

People  came  in  and  they  both  rose.  It  was 
over.     She  sank  back  miserably  into  the  offering 


HONEYCOMB  65 

of  the  moment,  retiring  into  a  lamp-lit  corner 
with  her  book,  enclosing  herself  in  its  promise. 

10 

She  sat  long  that  night  over  her  fire  dipping 
into  the  strange  book,  reading  passages  here  and 
there  ;  feeling  them  come  nearer  to  her  than 
anything  she  had  read  before.  She  knew  at 
once  that  she  did  not  want  to  read  the  book 
through ;  that  it  was  what  people  called  a 
tragedy,  that  the  author  had  deliberately  made 
it  a  tragedy ;  something  black  and  twisted  and 
painful,  painful  came  to  her  out  of  every  page ; 
but  seriously  to  read  it  right  through  and  be 
excited  about  the  tragic  story  seemed  silly  and 
pitiful.  The  thought  of  Mrs.  Corrie  and  Joey 
doing  this  annoyed  her  and  impatiently  she 
wanted  to  tell  them  that  there  was  nothing  in  it, 
nothing  in  the  things  the  author  wanted  to  make 
them  believe;  that  was  fraud,  humbug  .  .  . 
they  missed  everything.  They  could  not  see 
through  it,  they  read  through  to  the  happy 
ending  or  the  sad  ending  and  took  it  all  seriously. 

She  struggled  in  thought  to  discover  why  it 
was  she  felt  that  these  people  did  not  read  books 
and  that  she  herself  did.    She  felt  that  she  could 


66  HONEYCOMB 

look  at  the  end,  and  read  here  and  there  a  little 
and  know  ;  know  something,  something  they  did 
not  know.  People  thought  it  was  silly,  almost 
wrong  to  look  at  the  end  of  a  book.  But  if  it 
spoilt  a  book,  there  was  something  wrong  about 
the  book.  If  it  was  finished  and  the  interest 
gone  when  you  know  who  married  who,  what  was 
the  good  of  reading  at  all  ?  It  was  a  sort  of  trick, 
a  sell.  Like  a  puzzle  that  was  no  more  fun  when 
you  had  found  it  out.  There  was  something 
more  in  books  than  that  .  .  .  even  Rosa  Nou- 
chette  Carey  and  Mrs.  Hungerford,  something 
that  came  to  you  out  of  the  book,  any  bit  of  it,  a 
page,  even  a  sentence — and  the  "  stronger  "  the 
author  was  the  more  came.  That  was  why 
Ouida  put  those  others  in  the  shade,  not,  not, 
not  because  her  books  were  improper.  It  was  her, 
herself  somehow.  Then  you  read  books  to  find 
the  author  !  That  was  it.  That  was  the  differ- 
ence .  .  .  that  was  how  one  was  different  from 
most  people.  .  .  .  Dear  Eve  ;  I  have  just  dis- 
covered that  I  don't  read  books  for  the  story, 
but  as  a  psychological  study  of  the  author  .  .  . 
she  must  write  that  to  Eve  at  once  ;  to-morrow. 
It  was  rather  awful  and  strange.  It  meant  never 
being  able  to  agree  with  people  about  books, 


HONEYCOMB  67 

never  liking  them  for  the  same  reasons  as  other 
people.  .  .  .  But  it  was  true  and  exciting.  It 
meant  .  .  .  things  coming  to  you  out  of  books, 
people,  not  the  people  in  the  books,  but  knowing, 
absolutely,  everything  about  the  author.  She 
clung  to  the  volume  in  her  hand  with  a  sense  of 
wealth.  Its  very  binding,  the  feeling  of  it,  the 
sight  of  the  slender  serried  edges  of  the  closed 
leaves  came  to  her  as  having  a  sacredness  .  .  . 
and  the  world  was  full  of  books.  ...  It  did  not 
matter  that  people  went  about  talking  about 
nice  books,  interesting  books,  sad  books,  "  stories  " 
— they  would  never  be  that  to  her.  They  were 
people.  More  real  than  actual  people.  They 
came  nearer.  In  life  everything  was  so  scrappy 
and  mixed  up.  In  a  book  the  author  was  there 
in  every  word. 

Why  did  this  strange  book  come  so  near, 
nearer  than  any  others,  so  that  you  felt  the 
writing,  felt  the  sentences  as  if  you  were  writing 
them  yourself?  He  was  a  sad  pained  man,  all 
wrong ;  bothered  and  tragic  about  things, 
believing  in  sad  black  horror.  Then  why  did  he 
come  so  near  ?  Perhaps  because  life  was  sad. 
Perhaps  life  was  really  sad.  No  ;  it  was  somehow- 
the  writing,  the  clearness.     That  was  the  thing. 


68  HONEYCOMB 

He  himself  must  be  all  right,  if  he  was  so  clear. 
Then  it  was  dangerous,  dangerous  to  people  like 
Mrs.  Corrie  and  Joey  who  would  attend  only  to 
what  he  said,  and  not  to  him  .  .  .  sadness  or 
gladness,  saying  things  were  sad  or  glad  did  not 
matter  ;  there  was  something  behind  all  the  time, 
something  inside  people.  That  was  why  it  was 
impossible  to  pretend  to  sympathise  with  people. 
You  don't  have  to  sympathise  with  authors ; 
you  just  get  at  them,  neither  happy  nor  sad  ; 
like  talking,  more  than  talking.  Then  that  was 
why  the  people  who  wrote  moral  stories  were  so 
awful.  They  were  standing  behind  the  pages 
preaching  at  you  with  smarmy  voices.  .  .  . 
Bunyan  ?  .  .  .  No.  .  .  .  He  preached  to  himself 
too  .  .  .  crying  out  his  sins.  .  .  .  He  did  not 
get  between  you  and  himself  and  point  at  a  moral. 
An  author  must  show  himself.  Anyhow,  he  can't 
help  showing  himself.  A  moral  writer  only  sees 
the  mote  in  his  brother's  eye.  And  you  see  him 
seeing  it. 


HONEYCOMB  69 

11 

A  long  letter  to  Eve.  .  .  .  Eve  would  think 
that  she  was  showing  off.  But  she  would  be 
excited  and  interested  too,  and  would  think 
about  it  a  little.  If  only  she  could  make  Eve  see 
what  a  book  was  ...  a  dance  by  the  author,  a 
song,  a  prayer,  an  important  sermon,  a  message. 
Books  were  not  stories  printed  on  paper,  they 
were  people  ;  the  real  people  ;  ..."  I  prefer 
books  to  people "  ..."  I  know  now  why  I 
prefer  books  to  people." 

12 

"...  I  do  wish  you'd  tell  me  more  about 
your  extraordinary  days.  You  must  have  extra- 
ordinary days.  I  do.  Perhaps  everyone  has. 
Only  they  don't  seem  to  know  it !  " 

.  .  .  This  morning,  the  green  common  lying 
under  the  sun,  still  and  wide  and  silent ;  with  a 
little  breeze  puffing  over  it ;  the  intense  fresh 
green  near  the  open  door  of  the  little  Catholic 
church ;  the  sandy  pathway  running  up  into 
the  common,  hummocky  and  twisting  and  wind- 
ing, its  sand  particles  glinting  in  the  sun,  always 
there,  going  on,  whoever  died  or  whatever  hap- 


70  HONEYCOMB 

pened,  winding  amongst  happy  greenery,  in  and 
out  amongst  the  fresh  smell  of  the  common. 
Inside  the  chapel  the  incense  streaming  softly  up, 
the  seven  little  red  lamps  hanging  in  the  cloud  of 
incense  about  the  altar  ;  the  moving  of  the  thick 
forest  of  embroidery  on  the  cope  of  the  priest. 
Funny  when  he  bobbed,  but  when  he  just  moved 
quietly,  taking  a  necessary  step,  all  the  colour  of 
the  forest  on  his  cope  moving  against  the  still 
high  wide  colours  of  the  chancel.  If  only  anyone 
could  express  how  perfect  life  was  at  those 
moments ;  everyone  must  know,  everyone  who 
was  looking  must  know  that  life  was  perfectly 
happy.  That  is  why  people  went  to  church  ; 
for  those  moments  with  the  light  on  all  those 
things  in  the  chancel.  It  meant  something.  .  .  . 
Priests  and  nuns  knew  it  all  the  time  ;  even  when 
they  were  unhappy  ;  that  was  why  they  could 
kiss  dying  people  and  lepers ;  they  saw  something 
else,  all  the  time.  Nothing  common  or  unclean. 
That  was  why  Christ  had  blazing  eyes.  Chris- 
tianity :  the  sanctification  of  bread  and  wine,  and 
lepers  and  death  ;  the  body  ;  the  resurrection  of 
the  body.  Even  if  there  was  some  confusion  and 
squabbling  about  Christ  there  must  be  something 
in  it  if  the  things  that  showed  were  so  beautiful. 


HONEYCOMB  71 

Hard  cold  vows,  of  chastity  and  poverty.  That 
did  it.  Emptiness,  in  face  of — an  unspeakable 
glory.  If  one  could  not,  was  too  weak  or  proud, 
"  Verily  they  have  their  reward."  Everyone  got 
something  somehow  ...  in  hell ;  thou  art  there  also 
.  .  .  that  shows  there  is  no  eternal  punishment. 
Earth  is  hell,  with  everyone  going  to  heaven. 

What  was  the  worldly  life  ?  The  gay  bright 
shimmering  lunch,  the  many  guests,  the  glitter 
of  the  table,  mayonnaise  red  and  green  and  yellow, 
delicate  bright  wines ;  strolling  in  the  woods  in 
the  afternoon.  .  .  .  Tea,  everyone  telling  anec- 
dotes of  the  afternoon's  walk  as  if  it  were  a  sort 
of  competition,  great  bursts  of  laughter  and 
abrupt  silences  and  then  another  story,  the 
moments  of  laughter  were  something  like  those 
moments  in  church  ;  whilst  there  was  nothing 
but  laughter  in  the  room  everybody  was  per- 
fectly happy  and  good  ;  everybody  forgot  every- 
thing and  ran  back  somewhere  ;  to  the  beginning, 
to  the  time  when  they  were  first  looking  at  things, 
without  troubling  about  anything.  But  when 
the  laughter  ceased  everyone  ran  away  and  the 
rest  of  their  day  together  showed  in  a  flash,  an 
awful  tunnel  that  would  be  filled  with  the  echo  of 
the  separate  footsteps  unless  more  laughter  could 


yi  HONEYCOMB 

be  made,  to  hide  the  sad  helpless  sounds.  Dinners 
were  like  all  the  noise  and  laughter  of  tea-time 
grown  steadier,  a  pillow  fight  with  harder  whacks 
and  more  time  for  the  strokes,  no  bitterness,  just 
buffeting  and  shouts,  and  everyone  laughing  the 
same  laugh  as  if  they  were  all  in  some  high  secret. 
They  were  in  some  high  secret ;  the  great  secret 
of  the  worldly  life ;  and  if  you  prevented  your- 
self from  thinking  and  laughed,  they  seemed  to 
take  you  in.  That  was  the  way  to  live  the  worldly 
life.  To  talk  absurdly  and  laugh ;  to  be  lost  in 
laughter.  Why  had  Mrs.  Corrie  seemed  so 
vexed  ?  Why  had  she  said  suddenly  and  quietly 
in  the  billiard-room  that  it  seemed  rummy  to  go 
to  Mass  and  play  billiards  in  the  evening  ?  "  Be 
goody  if  you  are."  It  had  spoiled  the  day.  Mrs. 
Corrie  would  like  her  to  be  goody.  But  then  it 
was  she  who  had  pushed  her  down  the  steps  in 
the  afternoon  and  called  after  the  actor  to  take 
care  of  her  in  the  woods. 

There  was  something  too  sad  about  the  worldli- 
ness  and  too  difficult  about  goodness. 

Perhaps  one  had  not  gone  far  enough  with 
worldliness.  .  .  . 

"  Take  each  fair  mask  for  what  it  shows  itself, 
Nor  strive  to  look  beneath  it." 


HONEYCOMB  73 

That  was  what  she  had  done  drifting  about  in 
the  wood  with  the  actor  listening  to  his  pleasant 
voice.  It  was  an  excursion  into  pure  worldliness. 
He  had  never  thought  for  a  moment  in  his  life 
of  the  world  as  anything  than  what  it  appeared 
to  be.  He  had  no  suspicion  that  anyone  ever  did. 
He  had  accepted  her  as  one  of  the  house-party 
and  talked,  on  and  on  busily,  about  his  American 
tour  and  his  hope  of  a  London  engagement, 
getting  emphatic  about  his  chance,  the  chanciness 
of  everything.  And  she  had  drifted  along, 
delighting  in  the  pleasant  voice  sounding  through 
the  wood,  seeing  the  wood  clear  and  steady 
through  the  pleasant  tone,  not  caring  about 
chance  or  chanciness  but  ready  to  pretend  she 
was  interested  in  them  so  that  the  voice  might 
go  on  ;  pretending  to  be  interested  when  he 
stopped.  That  was  feminine  worldliness,  pre- 
tending to  be  interested  so  that  pleasant  things 
might  go  on.  Masculine  worldliness  was  refusing 
to  be  interested  so  that  it  might  go  on  doing 
things.  Feminine  worldliness  then  meant  per- 
petual hard  work  and  cheating  and  pretence  at 
the  door  of  a  hidden  garden,  a  lovely  hidden 
garden.  Masculine  worldliness  meant  never 
being  really  there  ;    always  talking  about  things 


74  HONEYCOMB 

that  had  happened  or  making  plans  for  things 
that  might  happen.  There  was  nothing  that 
could  happen  that  was  not  in  some  way  the  same 
as  anything  else.  Nobody  was  ever  quite  there, 
realising. 


CHAPTER    IV 

i 

DURING  her  second  week  of  giving  the 
children  their  morning's  lessons  Miriam 
saw  finally  that  it  was  impossible  and  would 
always  be  impossible  to  make  their  two  hours  of 
application  anything  but  an  irrelevant  interval 
in  their  lives.  They  came  into  the  schoolroom 
with  languid  reluctance,  dreamily  indolent  from 
breakfast  in  bed,  fragrant  from  warm  baths. 
They  made  no  resistance.  She  sat  with  the 
appointed  tasks  clearly  in  mind,  holding  on  to 
the  certainty  that  they  were  to  be  done  as  the 
only  means  of  getting  through  the  morning. 
The  excitement  of  taking  up  everything  afresh 
with  her  was  over  and  beyond  occasional  moments 
of  brightness  when  she  tried  to  impress  a  fact  or 
lift  them  over  a  difficulty  with  a  jest  and  they 
would  exchange  their  glance  of  secret  delight, 
their  curious  conspirators'  glance  of  some  great 
certainty  shared,  they  went  through  their  tasks 
with    well-bred    preoccupation,    sighing    deeply 

75 


y6  HONEYCOMB 

now  and  again  and  sometimes  groaning,  with 
clenched  hands  pressed  between  their  knees. 
Their  accustomed  life  of  events  was  close  round 
them,  in  the  garden  just  beyond  the  undraped 
window,  on  the  mat  outside  the  schoolroom  door, 
where  at  any  moment  a  footstep  crossing  the 
landing  might  fall  softly  and  pause,  when  their 
heads  would  go  up  in  tense  listening.  "  Rollo  !  ' 
they  would  say,  waiting  for  the  turning  of  the 
handle,  holding  themselves  in  for  the  subdued 
shoutings  they  would  utter  when  Mrs.  Corrie 
appeared  standing  in  the  doorway  with  a  finger 
on  her  lips.  "  Happy  ?  "  she  would  breathe  ; 
"  working  like  nigger  boys  ?  "  Unless  Miriam 
looked  gravely  detached  she  would  glide  in 
blushing,  and  passionately  caress  them.  When 
this  happened,  sighs  and  groanings  filled  the  time 
that  remained.  Their  nearest  approach  to  open 
rebellion  included  a  tacit  appeal  to  her  as  a  fellow- 
sufferer  to  throw  up  the  stupid  game.  It  was 
quite  clear  that  they  did  not  blame  her  for  their 
sufferings  and  they  were  so  much  prepared  to  do 
the  decent  thing  that  her  experiment  of  reading 
to  them  regularly  at  some  convenient  half-hour 
each  day  from  a  book  of  adventures  or  fairy  tale, 
not  only  reconciled  them  to  endure  the  morning's 


HONEYCOMB  77 

ordeal,  but  filled  them  with  a  gratitude  that 
astonished  her  and  the  beginnings  of  a  personal 
regard  for  her  that  shook  her  heart.  During  the 
readings  they  would  lose  their  air  of  well-bred 
detachment  and  would  come  near.  They  would 
be  relaxed  and  silent ;  the  girl  with  bent  head 
and  brooding  defiant  curiously  smiling  and  frown- 
ing face,  the  boy  gazing  at  the  reader,  rapturous. 
She  would  sometimes  feel  against  each  arm  the 
pressure  of  a  head. 

She  had  felt  instinctively  and  at  once  that  she 
could  not  use  their  lesson  hours  as  opportunities 
for  talking  at  large  on  general  ideas  as  she  had 
done  with  the  children  in  the  Banbury  Park 
school.  Those  children,  the  children  of  trades- 
men most  of  them,  could  be  allowed  to  take  up 
the  beginnings  of  ideas ;  "  ideals,"  the  sense  of 
modern  reforms,  they  could  be  allowed  to  discuss 
anything  from  any  point  of  view  and  take  up 
attitudes  and  have  opinions.  The  opportunity 
for  discussion  and  for  encouraging  a  definite 
attitude  towards  life  was  much  greater  in  this 
quiet  room  with  only  the  two  children  ;  but  it 
would  have  been  mean,  Miriam  felt,  to  take 
advantage  of  this  opportunity  ;  to  be  anything 
but  strictly  neutral  and  wary  of  generalisations. 


78  HONEYCOMB 

It  would  have  been  so  easy.  Probably  a  really 
"  conscientious "  woman  would  have  done  it, 
have  "  influenced  "  them,  given  the  girl  a  bias 
in  the  direction  of  some  life  of  devotion,  hospital 
nursing  or  slum  missionary  work,  and  have  filled 
the  boy  with  ideas  as  to  the  essential  superiority 
of  "  Radicals."  Their  minds  were  so  soft  and 
untouched.  ...  It  ended  in  a  conspiracy,  they 
all  sat  masquerading,  and  finished  their  morning 
exhausted  and  relieved.  The  children  knew  the 
lessons  tortured  her  and  made  her  ill  at  ease,  and 
they  were  puzzled  without  disapproving.  Through 
it  all  she  felt  their  gratitude  to  her  for  not  being 
"  simple,"  like  Bunnikin. 


There  was  to  be  another  week-end.  Again 
there  would  be  the  sense  of  being  a  visitor 
amongst  other  visitors ;  visitor  was  not  the  word  ; 
there  was  a  French  word  which  described  the 
thing,  "  convive,"  "  les  convives  "...  people 
sitting  easily  about  a  table  with  flushed  faces  .  .  . 
someone  standing  drunkenly  up  with  eyes  blazing 
with  friendliness  and  a  raised  wineglass  .  .  . 
women  and  wine,  the  roses  of  Heliogabalus ;  but 
he    was    a    Greek    and   dreadful   in   some   way  > 


HONEYCOMB  79 

convives  were  Latin,  Roman  ;  fountains,  water 
flowing  over  marble,  white- robed  strong-faced 
people  reclining  on  marble  couches,  feasting  .  .  . 
taking  each  fair  mask  for  what  it  shows  itself  ; 
that  was  what  this  kind  of  wealthy  English  people 
did,  perhaps  what  all  wealthy  people  did  .  .  . 
the  maimed,  the  halt,  the  blind,  compel  them  to 
come  in  .  .  .  but  that  was  after  the  others  had 
refused.  The  thing  that  made  you  feel  j oiliest 
and  strongest  was  to  forget  the  maimed,  to  be 
a  fair  mask,  to  keep  everything  else  out  and  be  a 
little  circle  of  people  knowing  that  everything 
was  kept  out.  Suppose  a  skeleton  walked  in  ? 
Offer  it  a  glass  of  wine.  People  have  no  right  to 
be  skeletons,  or  if  they  are  to  make  a  fuss  about 
it.  These  people  would  be  all  the  brighter  if 
they  happened  to  have  neuralgia  ;  some  strong 
pain  or  emotion  made  you  able  to  do  things. 
Taking  each  fair  mask  was  a  fine  grown-up  game. 
Perhaps  it  could  be  kept  up  to  the  end  ?  Perhaps 
that  was  the  meaning  of  the  man  playing  cards 
on  his  death-bed.  Defying  God.  That  was 
what  Satan  did.  He  was  brave ;  defying  a 
tyrant  .  .  .  "  nothing  to  do  but  curse  God  and 
die."  Who  said  that  ?  there  was  something 
silly  about  it ;    giving  in,  not  real  defiance.     It 


80  HONEYCOMB 

didn't  settle  anything  ;  if  the  new  ideas  were 
true  ;  the  thing  went  on.  The  love  of  God  was 
like  the  love  of  a  mother  ;  always  forgiving  you, 
ready  to  die  for  you,  always  waiting  for  you  to  be 
good.  Why  ?  It  was  mean.  The  things  one 
wanted  one  could  not  have  if  one  were  just  tame 
and  good.  ...  It  is  morbid  to  think  about  being 
good  ;  better  the  fair  mask — anything.  But  it 
did  not  make  people  happy.  These  people  were 
not  happy.    They  were  not  real. 

3 

Spring  ;  everywhere,  inside  and  outside  the 
house.  The  spring  outside  had  a  meaning  here. 
It  came  in  through  the  windows  without  obstruc- 
tion and  passed  into  everything.  At  home  it 
had  sent  one  nearly  mad  with  joy  and  anticipa- 
tion and  passed  and  left  you  looking  for  it  for 
the  rest  of  the  year  ;  in  Germany  it  had  brought 
music  and  wild  joy — the  secret  had  passed  from 
eye  to  eye ;  all  the  girls  had  known  it.  At 
Wordsworth  House  it  had  stood  far  away,  like  a 
picture  in  a  dream,  something  that  could  be 
seen  from  windows,  and  found  for  a  moment  in 
the  park,  but  powerless  to  get  into  the  house. 
Here  it  came  in  ;    you  could  not  forget  it  for  a 


HONEYCOMB  81 

moment ;  and  it  was  a  background  for  something 
more  wonderful  than  itself ;  something  that 
made  it  wonderful ;  something  there  were  no 
words  for ;  voices,  movements  from  room  to 
room,  strange  food,  the  soft  chink  of  Venetian 
glass,  amber  wine,  the  light  drowned  in  wine, 
through  the  window  a  sharp  gleam  on  things 
that  reflected,  day  and  night,  into  everything, 
even  into  one's  thoughts.  Why  was  the  spring 
suddenly  so  real  ?  Why  was  it  that  you  could 
stand  as  it  were  in  a  shaft  of  it  all  the  time, 
feeling  in  your  breathing,  hearing  in  your  voice 
the  sound  of  the  spring,  the  blood  in  your  finger- 
tips seeming  like  the  roses  that  they  would  touch 
soon  in  the  garden  ? 

How  ignorant  the  man  was  who  said,  "  each 
fair  mask  for  what  it  shows  itself."  Life  is  not  a 
mask,  it  is  fair  ;   the  gold  in  one's  hair  is  real. 

4 

Friday  brought  an  atmosphere  of  expectation. 
Mr.  Kronen,  an  old  friend  of  the  Corries,  was 
coming  down,  with  a  new  Mrs.  Kronen. 

By  the  early  afternoon  the  house  was  full  of 
fragrance ;  coming  downstairs  dressed  for  an 
errand  in  the  little  town  two  miles  away,  Miriam 


82  HONEYCOMB 

saw  the  hall  all  pink  and  saffron  with  azaleas. 
Coming  across  the  hall  she  found  a  scent  in  the 
air  that  did  not  come  from  the  azaleas,  a  sweet 
familiar  syrupy  distillation  .  .  .  the  blaze  of 
childhood's  garden  was  round  her  again,  bright 
magic  flowers  in  the  sunlight,  magic  flowers, 
still  there,  nearer  to  her  than  ever  in  this  happy 
house ;  she  could  almost  hear  the  humming  of 
the  bees,  and  flung  back  the  bead  curtain  with 
unseeing  eyes  half  expecting  some  doorway  to 
open  on  the  remembered  garden  ;  •  the  scent  was 
overpowering  .  .  .  the  drawing-room  was  cool 
and  silent  with  closed  windows  and  drawn  blinds ; 
bowls  of  roses  stood  in  every  available  place  ;  she 
tiptoed  about  in  the  room  gathering  their  scent. 

As  she  opened  the  hall  door  Mrs.  Corrie's 
voice  startled  her  from  the  dining-room. 

Going  into  the  dining-room  she  found  her  with 
a  flushed  face  and  excited  eyes  and  the  children 
dancing  round  her.  "  Another  tin  !  One  more 
tin  !  '  they  exclaimed,  plucking  at  Miriam. 
From  the  billiard-room  came  the  smell  of  fresh 
varnish.  Wiggerson  was  on  her  knees  near  the 
door. 

"  She's  done  some  stupid  thing,"  thought 
Miriam,   looking   at   Mrs.   Corrie's   excited,   un- 


HONEYCOMB  83 

conscious  face  with  sudden  anxiety ;  "  some 
womanish  overdoing  it,  wanting  to  do  too  much 
and  spoiling  everything."  She  felt  as  if  she  were 
representing  Mr.  Corrie. 

"  Will  it  be  dry  in  time  ?  "  she  asked,  half 
angrily,  scarcely  knowing  what  she  said  and  in 
the  midst  of  Mrs.  Corrie's  apologetic  petition 
that  she  would  bring  a  tin  of  oak  stain  back  with 
her. 

"  Lordy,  don't  you  think  so  ?  "  whispered  Mrs. 
Corrie,  only  half  dismayed. 

Miriam  had  not  patience  to  follow  her  as  she 
went  to  survey  the  floor  ruefully  chanting,  "  Oh, 
Wiggerson,  Wiggerson." 

"  Anyhow  I'm  sure  it  oughtn't  to  have  any 
more  on  as  late  as  when  I  come  back,"  she  scolded 
boldly.    How  annoyed  Mr.  Corrie  would  be.  .  .  . 

5 

As  she  was  going  down  the  quiet  road  past  the 
high  oak  garden  palings  of  the  nearest  house  she 
heard  the  bumping  and  scrabbling  of  a  heavy 
body  against  the  palings  and  a  dog  leapt  into  the 
road  almost  at  her  feet,  making  the  dust  fly.  It 
was  an  Irish  terrier.  It  smiled  and  barked  a 
little,  waiting,  looking  up  into  her  face  and  up 


84  HONEYCOMB 

and  down  the  road.  "  It  thought  it  knew  me," 
she  pondered  ;~  "it  mistook  me  for  someone  else." 
She  patted  its  head  and  went  forward  thinking 
of  the  joyful  scrabbling,  its  headlong  determina- 
tion. The  dog  jerked  back  its  head  with  a  wide 
smile,  tore  down  the  road  and  came  back  leaping 
and  smiling.  Something  disappeared  from  the 
vista  of  the  roadway  as  the  dog  rushed  along  it 
nosing  after  scents,  looking  round  now  and  again, 
and  now  and  again  rushing  back  to  greet  her.  It 
brought  back  the  sense  of  the  house  and  the 
strange  gay  life  she  had  just  left  to  go  on  her 
errand  to  the  little  unknown  town.  It  wore  a 
smart  collar  ;  it  belonged  to  that  life.  People 
in  it  were  never  alone  ;  when  they  went  out 
there  was  always  a  dog  with  them.  "  It  thinks 
I'm  one  of  them."  But  it  liked  the  wild  ;  when 
they  came  out  on  to  the  common  it  rushed  up  a 
sandy  pathway  and  disappeared  amongst  the 
gorse  bushes.  For  a  while  Miriam  hoped  it  would 
come  back  and  kept  looking  about  for  it ;  then 
she  gave  it  up  and  went  ahead  with  the  commons 
drifting  slowly  by  on  either  side  ;  she  wished 
that  the  action  of  walking  were  not  so  jerky,  that 
the  expanses  on  either  side  might  pass  more 
smoothly   and    easily  by :    "  that's  why    people 


HONEYCOMB  85 

drive,"  she  thought ;  "  you  can  only  really  see 
the  country  when  you  are  not  moving  yourself." 
Standing  still  for  a  moment  she  looked  across  the 
open  stretch  to  her  left  and  smiled  at  it  and  went 
on  again,  walking  more  quickly  ;  the  soft  beauty 
that  had  retreated  to  the  horizon  when  the  dog 
was  with  her  was  spreading  back  again  across  the 
whole  expanse  and  coming  towards  her ;  she 
hurried  on  singing  softly  at  random,  "  Scorn 
such  a  joe  .  .  .  though  I  could  fell  thee  at  a 
blow,  though  I-i,  cou-uld  fe-ell  thee-ee  a-at  a-a 
blow "...  people  walking  and  thinking  and 
fussing,  people  driving  somewhere  in  victorias 
were  always  coming  along  the  road,  to  them  it 
was  a  sort  of  suburb,  quite  ordinary,  the  bit  near 
home.  But  it  was  big  enough  to  be  full  of  waves 
and  waves  of  something  real,  something  cool  and 
true  and  unchanging.  Had  anybody  seen  it,  did 
the  people  who  lived  there  know  it  ?  Did  any- 
body know  this  strange  thing  ?  She  almost  ran  ; 
my  "  commons,"  she  said.  "  I  know  how  beauti- 
ful you  are  ;  if  only  I  knew  whether  you  know 
that  I  know.  I  know,  I  know,"  she  said,  "  I 
shan't  forget  you."  "  True,  true  till  death ; 
bear  it,  oh  wind,  on  thy  lightning  breath." 


86  HONEYCOMB 

6 

The  sun  was  very  warm  ;  before  she  reached 
the  end  of  the  long  road  the  sandy  pathways  were 
beginning  to  glare.  There  was  the  river  and  the 
little  bridge  and  the  first  shop  just  beyond  it, 
where  her  purchase  was  to  be  made.  Its  wood- 
work was  very  bright  white  ;  it  had  a  seaside 
look.  She  stood  still  on  the  slight  ascent  of  the 
bridge  mopping  her  face  and  preparing  to  repre- 
sent Mrs.  Corrie  in  the  shop.  Scrambling  up  the 
shallow  bank  from  the  common  came  the  yellow 
dog.  "  Oh,  hooray — you  duck,"  she  breathed, 
patting  the  warm  stubbly  head  and  listening  to 
his  breathless  snortings.  A  piano-organ  broke 
into  loud  music  in  the  little  street.  It  was  not  a 
mysterious  little  town,  there  was  nothing  of  the 
village  about  it.  The  white  framed  windows 
held  things  you  would  see  in  a  Regent  Street 
confectioner's ;  it  was  a  special  shop  for  the  kind 
of  people  who  lived  here.  Miriam  felt  for  her 
three  and  six  and  asked  for  her  pound  of  coffee 
creams  with  a  bored  air,  wishing  she  knew  the 
dog's  name  so  that  she  could  claim  him  familiarly. 
She  contented  herself  with  telling  him  to  lie 
a  own   in   an   angry  whisper   repeatedly,   as   the 


HONEYCOMB  87 

creams  were  being  weighed.  He  stood  panting 
and  gazing  at  her  wagging  his  stump.  "  'Ullo, 
Bushy,"  said  the  shopwoman  languidly ;  the 
dog  faced  round  panting  more  loudly.  "  There 
you  are,  Bush,"  she  said,  as  the  scales  balanced, 
and  flung  the  dog  a  chocolate  wafer  which  he 
caught  with  a  snap.  Miriam  gazed  vaguely  at 
the  unfamiliar  spectacle,  angrily  feeling  that  the 
shopwoman  was  observing  her.  "  You're  not 
going  to  take  him  through  the  town  ?  "  said  the 
shopwoman  severely. 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Miriam  nervously. 

"  He's  the  worst  fighter  in  the  parish  ;  they 
never  bring  him  into  the  town  unless  it's  the 
groom  sometimes." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Miriam,  taking  her  bag  of 
coffee  creams.  "  Dogs  are  a  nuisance,  aren't 
they  ?  "  she  added,  in  an  emphatically  sym- 
pathetic tone,  getting  away  through  the  swing 
door  almost  hating  the  yellow  body  that  squeezed 
through  at  her  side  and  stood  eagerly  facing 
towards  the  market-place  waiting  for  her  move- 
ments. 

7 

She  hurried  up  over  the  bridge  calling  to  the 
dog  without  looking  round,   listening  fearfully 


88  HONEYCOMB 

for  sounds  of  conflict  with  a  brown  collie  she  had 
caught  sight  of  standing  with  head  high  and  ears 
pricked,  twenty  yards  down  the  street.  The 
piano-organ  jingled  angrily.  The  dog  came 
thoughtfully  trotting  over  the  bridge  and  ambled 
off  across  the  common — safe.  He  might  have 
been  killed,  or  killed  another  dog ;  how  cruel 
dogs  were,  without  knowing  better.  She  looked 
to  the  common  asking  consolation  for  her  beating 
heart.  The  bag  of  creams  was  safe  and  heavy  in 
her  hand,  the  dog  had  gone,  the  little  town  was 
behind,  it  had  hurt  her ;  it  was  spoiled ;  she 
would  never  like  it.  It  had  done  nothing  but 
remind  her  that  she  was  a  helpless  dingy  little 
governess.  She  toiled  along,  feeling  dreadfully 
tired  ;  the  sounds  of  her  boot  soles  on  the  firm, 
sand-powdered  road  mocked  her,  telling  her  she 
must  go  on.  If  she  could  be  quite  sure  of  finding 
a  kind  woman,  not  a  hard-featured  woman  with 
black  and  grey  hair,  like  the  shopwoman,  but  kind, 
knowing  and  understanding  everything,  in  a  large 
print  apron  with  her  sleeves  rolled  up  to  the 
elbows,  living  in  a  large  cottage  with  a  family, 
who  would  look  at  her  and  smile  a  quiet  short 
certain  smile,  as  if  she  had  been  waiting  for  her, 
and  take  her  in  and  let  her  help  and  stay  there 


HONEYCOMB  89 

for  ever,  she  would  put  down  the  bag  of  coffee 
creams  on  the  edge  of  the  common  and  go 
straight  across  it  to  her  ;  but  there  would  not  be 
a  woman  like  that  here  ;  all  that  the  women 
round  here  would  think  about  her  would  be  to 
wonder  which  of  the  families  she  belonged  to. 
If  a  victoria  came  along  and  in  it  a  delicate, 
lonely  old  gentleman  who  had  a  large  empty 
house  with  deep  quiet  rooms  and  a  large  sunny 
garden  with  high  walls  and  wanted  someone  to 
be  about  there  singing  and  happy  till  he  died  she 
would  go.  He  would  drive  away  with  her  and 
shut  her  up  in  the  quiet  beautiful  house,  protect- 
ing her  and  keeping  people  off,  and  she  would 
sing  all  day  in  the  garden  and  the  house  and  play 
to  him  and  read  sometimes  aloud,  and  he  would 
forget  he  was  old  and  ill,  and  they  would  share 
the  great  secret,  dying  of  happiness.  Die  of 
happiness.  People  ought  to  be  able  to  die  of 
happiness  if  they  were  able  to  admit  how  happy 
they  were.  If  they  admitted  it  aloud  they  would 
pass  straight  out  of  their  bodies,  alive ;  un- 
happiness  was  the  same  as  death,  not  suffering ; 
but  letting  suffering  make  you  unhappy — curse 
God  and  die,  curse  life,  that  was  letting  life  beat 
you  ;   letting  God  beat  you.    God  did  not  want 


9o  HONEYCOMB 

that.  No  one  admitted  it.  No  one  seemed  to 
know  anything  about  it.  People  just  went  on 
fussing. 

The  violent  beating  of  her  heart  died  down. 
The  sun  was  behind  her  ;  the  commons  glowed. 
She  must  have  been  looking  at  them  for  some 
time  because  she  could  close  her  eyes  and  see 
exactly  how  they  looked,  all  alive  in  steady  colour, 
gleaming  and  fresh.  The  thumping  and  trilling 
of  the  distant  piano-organ  offered  itself  equally 
to  everybody.  It  knew  the  secret  and  twirled 
and  swept  all  the  fussing  away  into  a  tune. 
Quietly  the  clock  of  the  church  in  the  little  town 
struck  four.  She  would  be  late  for  tea.  The 
children  would  have  tea  with  Mrs.  Corrie. 
Wiggerson  would  make  a  fresh  pot  for  her  when 
she  got  in.  There  would  be  a  little  tray  in  her 
quiet  room,  a  cup  and  saucer,  the  little  sprigged 
silk  tea-cosy,  the  "  Human  Document."  It  would 
be  the  beginning  of  the  week-end.  It  would  link 
her  up  again  with  the  early  afternoon,  the  rose- 
filled  drawing-room,  the  excited  dining-room, 
the  smell  of  varnish  from  the  billiard-room 
floor. 


HONEYCOMB  91 

8 

Mrs.  Corrie  and  the  children  were  dancing  in 
a  lingering  patch  of  sunlight  at  the  far  end  of  the 
lawn  as  Miriam  came  up  the  drive  with  her 
chocolates.  They  waved  and  shouted  to  her, 
trumpeting  questions  through  their  hands.  She 
held  up  the  bag.  "  Go  and  have  tea,  you  poor 
soul,"  sang  Mrs.  Corrie.  How  excited  they  were. 
In  the  flower-filled  hall  Stokes,  muttering  ex- 
citedly to  herself,  was  lighting  the  fire.  The 
crackling  of  wood  came  from  the  dining-room. 

Wiggerson  was  swishing  about  in  the  dining- 
room  clearing  away  tea. 

9 

Sitting  in  her  low  basket  chair  with  her  dis- 
mantled tea-tray  at  her  side  and  a  picture  in  her 
mind  of  the  new  Mrs.  Kronen  coming  down 
from  London  in  the  train  in  bright  new  clothes 
and  a  dust-cloak,  Miriam  was  startled  by  hearing 
frightened  footsteps  rush  across  the  landing  and 
a  frightened  voice  calling  for  Wiggerson. 

"  Something's  happened,"  she  told  herself 
angrily,  "  it  always  does  when  everybody's  so 
excited — 'tel  qui  rit  vendredi  dimanchepieurera.'  * 


92  HONEYCOMB 

Opening  the  door  she  found  the  landing 
empty  and  quiet,  the  setting  sun  streamed  across 
its  coloured  spaces,  the  flowers  blazed  as  if  they 
were  standing  in  a  garden.  .  .  .  Joey  always 
went  for  walks  if  she  were  feeling  thick  and  fat, 
she  always  went  for  a  long  walk ;  in  coats  with 
skirts  to  match  ;  a  costume  ;  never  a  jacket  with 
a  different  skirt  .  .  .  the  long  cool  passage 
leading  away  to  the  invisible  door  of  Mr.  Corrie's 
room  was  full  of  wreathing  smoke.  Wiggerson 
rushed  across  the  landing  along  the  passage, 
followed  by  Mrs.  Corrie,  with  her  head  up  and 
her  handkerchief  to  her  nose  and  all  her  figure 
tense  and  angular  and  strong.  Both  had  passed 
silently  ;  but  there  were  shriekings  on  the  stairs 
and  the  children  came  at  Miriam  with  cries  and 
screams.  "  Rollo'll  be  killed  "  ;  "  Go  to  her  "  ; 
"  Go  and  save  vem  "  ;  the  children  shrieked 
and  leaped  up  and  down  in  front  of  her.  The 
boy's  white  features  worked  as  if  they  must 
dislocate  ;  his  eyes  were  black  with  terror  ;  he 
wrung  his  hands.  Sybil's  face,  scarlet  and  shape- 
less and  streaming  with  tears,  blazed  wrath  at 
Miriam  through  her  green  eyes.  "  Be  quiet," 
Miriam  said  in  loud  tones.  "  I  shall  do  nothing 
till  you  are  quiet."    With  a  shriek  the  girl  lashed 


HONEYCOMB  93 

at  her  with  the  dog-whip.  "  Save  vem,  save 
vem,"  shrieked  the  boy,  twisting  his  arms  in  the 
air.  "  Will  you  both  be  quiet  instantly  ? " 
shouted  Miriam,  as  the  blood  rose  to  her  head, 
catching  and  holding  the  boy.  Both  children 
howled  and  choked  ;  Sybil  flung  herself  forward 
howling,  and  Miriam  felt  her  teeth  in  her  wrist. 
The  smoke  came  pouring  out  of  the  little  hidden 
room,  coiling  itself  against  the  air  of  the  passage 
like  some  fascinating  silent  inevitable  grimace. 
Wiggerson's  figure  flying  through  it  stirred  it 
strangely,  but  it  closed  behind  her  and  billowed 
horribly  out  towards  Mrs.  Corrie  standing  just 
clear  of  its  advance  with  her  handkerchief 
pressed  to  her  face,  quiet,  not  calling  to  Wigger- 
son,  waiting  where  she  had  disappeared.  Miriam 
could  not  move.  Sybil's  body  hung  fastened  to 
her  own  with  entwining  limbs  ..."  a  fight  in 
the  jungle,"  a  tiger  flung  fixed  like  a  leech  against 
the  breast  of  a  screaming  elephant  .  .  .  the  boy 
had  the  whip  and  was  slashing  at  her  legs  through 
her  thin  dress  and  uttering  piercing  shrieks. 

10 

"  Stokes  is  an  idjut,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie,  going 
gaily  downstairs  with  the  two  exhausted  white- 


94  HONEYCOMB 

faced   children   followed   by   Wiggerson   flitting 
along  with  bloodshot  blinking  eyes. 

Stokes,  sullenly  brooding,  lighting  Mr.  Corrie's 
fire  without  putting  back  the  register.     What 
was  it  that  made  Stokes  sullen  and  brooding  so 
that  the  accident  had  happened  and  the  smoke 
had  come  ?    Stokes  had  seen  something,  someone, 
like  the  fearful  oncoming  curving  stare  of  the 
smoke.      Mrs.    Corrie    and    Wiggerson    did    not 
brood  like  that.     They  laughed  and  wept  and 
snatched  things  out  of  danger.     They  had  thin 
faces.      Mrs.    Corrie   was    alone,    like    an    aspen 
shaking  its  leaves  in  windless  air.     She  knew  she 
was  alone.    Wiggerson  .  .  .  Wiggerson  was  .  .  .  ? 
Making  her  toilet  in  the  spring  sunset  Miriam 
saw  all  that  time  Wiggerson's  tall  body  hurtling 
about  in  her  small  pantry,  quickly  selecting  and 
packing    things    on    a    tray — her    eyes    glancing 
swiftly  downwards  as  her  foot  caught,  the  swift 
bending  of  her  body,  the  rip,  rip  as  she  tore  the 
braiding  from  her  skirt,  her  intent  face  as  she 
threw  it  from  her  and  swept  sinuously  upright, 
her  undisturbed  hands  once  more  at  their  swift 
work. 


HONEYCOMB  95 


11 


What  a  strange  photograph  ...  a  woman  in 
Grecian  drapery  seated  on  a  stonework  chair 
with  a  small  harp  on  her  knees,  one  hand  limply 
tweaking  the  strings  of  her  harp  ;  her  head  thrown 
back,  her  eyes,  hard  and  bright,  staring  up  into 
the  sky,  "  Inspiration  "  printed  in  ink  on  the  white 
margin  under  the  photograph.  It  was  an 
Englishwoman,  a  large  stiff  square  body,  a  coil  of 
carefully  crimped  hair  and  a  curled  fringe,  pre- 
tending. There  were  people  who  would  say, 
"  What  a  pretty  photograph,"  and  mean  it  .  .  . 
the  draperies  and  the  attitude.  How  easy  it  was 
to  take  people  in,  just  by  acting.  Not  the  real 
people.  There  were  real  people.  Where  were 
they  ?  That  horrid  thing  could  get  itself  on  to 
Mrs.  Corrie's  drawing-room  table  and  sit  there 
unbroken.  All  women  were  inspired  in  a  way. 
It  was  true  enough.  But  it  was  a  secret.  Men 
ought  not  to  be  told.  They  must  find  it  out  for 
themselves.  To  dress  up  and  try  to  make  it  some- 
thing to  attract  somebody.  She  was  not  a  woman, 
she  was  a  woman  .  .  .  oh,  curse  it  all.  But  men 
liked  actresses.    They  liked  being  fooled. 

Miriam  looked  closely  at  the  photograph  with 


96  HONEYCOMB 

hatred  in  her  eyes.  Why  not  the  stone  steps  and 
the  chair  and  the  sense  of  sunlight ;  sunlit  air  ? 
That  would  be  enough.  "  You  get  in  the  way 
of  the  air,  you  thing"  she  muttered,  and  the 
woman's  helpless  unconscious  sandalled  feet  re- 
proached her.  Voices  were  shouting  to  each 
other  on  the  upper  landing.  It  was  Mrs.  Kronen's 
photograph,  of  course.  Miriam  moved  quickly 
away,  ashamed  of  having  stared.  But  it  was  too 
late  ;  she  had  done  a  horrid  thing  again.  She 
saw,  as  if  it  were  in  the  room  with  her,  the  affair 
of  the  taking  of  the  photograph,  a  cross  face 
coming  down  from  its  pose  to  argue  with  the 
photographer,  and  then  flung  upwards  again, 
waiting.  And  she  had  put  or  let  someone  put  it, 
in  a  frame,  at  once  on  a  strange  drawing-room 
table.  Perhaps  her  husband  had  put  it  there. 
But  if  he  valued  it  he  would  hide  and  shelter  it. 
.  .  .  When  we  meet,  she  will  know  I  have  stared 
at  her  photograph. 

Mrs.  Kronen  came  suddenly  in  with  Mrs. 
Corrie,  talking  in  a  rich  deep  thick  voice  that 
moved,  with  large  intervals,  up  and  down  a  long 
scale  and  yet  produced  a  curious  effect  of  toneless 
flatness,  just  as  if  she  were  speaking  a  narrow 
nasal  Cockney.   There  was  a  Cockney  sound  some- 


HONEYCOMB  97 

where  in  her  voice.  She  began  at  once  loudly 
praising  everything  in  the  room,  hardly  pausing 
when  Miriam  was  introduced  to  her,  and  giving 
no  sign  of  having  seen  her.  If  I  were  alone  with 
her,  thought  Miriam,  I  should  want  to  say 
"  'Ullo,  'ow's  yourself  ?  "  and  grin.  It  would  be 
the  only  thing  one  could  genuinely  do.  Mrs. 
Corrie  almost  giggled  at  the  end  of  each  of  Mrs. 
Kronen's  exclamations,  but  she  was  very  gay  and 
animated  and  so  was  Mr.  Corrie  when  he  came  in 
with  Mr.  Kronen.  They  all  went  in  to  dinner 
talking  and  laughing  loudly.  And  they  went  on 
laughing  and  joking  and  talking  loudly  against 
each  other  through  dinner. 

12 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Corrie  looked  thin  and  small  and 
very  young.  Once  or  twice  they  laughed  at  the 
same  moment  and  glanced  at  each  other.  Mr. 
Corrie's  face  was  flushed.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Kronen 
looked  like  brother  and  sister— only  that  she  said 
South  Africa  as  if  it  were  a  phrase  in  a  tragic 
recitative  from  an  oratorio  and  he  as  if  it  were 
something  he  had  behind  him  that  gave  him  a 
sort  of  advantage  over  everyone.  It  seemed  to 
be  all  he  had.     They  had  both  been  in  South 

H 


98  HONEYCOMB 

Africa,  travelling  in  bullock  waggons  blinded  by 
the  fierce  light  and  choked  with  sand.  It  seemed 
to  linger  in  the  curious  brickish  look  of  their 
complexions  and  the  hard  yellow  of  their  hair. 
The  talk  about  South  Africa  lasted  all  dinner- 
time. It  seemed  to  interest  Mr.  Corrie.  His 
eyes  gleamed  strangely  as  he  talked  about  I.D.B.'s. 
Everybody  at  the  table  said,  "  Illicit  dahmond 
bah  "  at  least  once  with  a  little  thrill  of  the  face. 
Why  was  it  illicit  to  buy  diamonds  ? — strange 
people  out  there  in  the  glare  buying  gleaming 
stones  from  miners  and  this  curious  feeling  about 
it  all  round  the  table,  everybody  with  hot  glint- 
ing excited  eyes — and  somebody,  some  man,  a 
business  man  who  had  handed  round  diamonds 
like  chocolates  to  his  friends  in  his  box  at  the 
opera,  a  Stock  Exchange  man  in  a  frock-coat 
throwing  himself  into  the  sea  somewhere  between 
England  and  South  Africa — ah,  what  a  pity, 
worried  to  death,  with  an  excited  head.  He 
wanted  diamonds.  And  when  Mr.  Corrie  handed 
Mrs.  Kronen  a  dish  of  fruit  and  said,  "  A  banana  ? 
A  bite  of  a  barnato  ?  "  they  all  laughed,  so  com- 
fortably. Something  illicit  seemed  to  creep 
into  the  very  pictures  and  flow  over  the 
walls.    The  poor  man's  body  falling  desperately 


HONEYCOMB  99 

into   the  sea.      He  could   not   endure  his  own 
excited  eyes. 

Early  on  Monday  morning  Miriam  heard  Mrs. 
Kronen  singing  in  the  bathroom.  She  tried  not 
to  listen  and  listened.  The  bold  sound  had  come 
in  through  her  open  door  when  Stokes  brought 
her  breakfast  tray.  With  it  had  come  the  smell 
of  a  downstairs  breakfast,  coffee,  a  curious  fresh, 
sustaining  odour  of  coffee  and  freshly  frying 
rashers.  There  was  coffee  on  her  own  tray  this 
morning  and  a  letter  addressed  to  her  in  a  bold 
unknown  hand.  She  sipped  her  coffee  at  once 
and  put  the  overwhelming  letter  aside  on  her 
blue  coverlet.  It  was  an  overweight,  something 
thrown  in  on  the  surface  of  the  tide  on  which 
she  had  awakened  in  the  soft  fresh  harmonies  of 
rose  and  blue  of  her  curtained  room.  It  could 
wait.  It  had  come  out  of  the  world  for  her  ; 
but  she  felt  independent  of  it.  It  did  not  disturb 
her.  Its  overwhelming  quality  was  in  the  fact 
that  she  had  called  it  to  her  out  of  the  world.  It 
was  as  if  she  had  herself  addressed  the  large  bold 
envelope.  She  left  it.  Her  sipped  coffee  steered 
her  into  the  tide  of  the  downstairs  life.  There 
was   breakfast   downstairs,   steaming   coffee   and 


ioo  HONEYCOMB 

entree  dishes  for  Mr.  Corrie  and  the  Kronens, 
and  they  were  all  going  off  by  the  early  train. 

"  C'est  si  bon,"  sang  Mrs.  Kronen  in  a  deep 
baritone,  as  Miriam  drank  her  coffee  ;    "  de  con- 
fon-dre  en  un,  deu-eux  bai-sers."    She  sang  it  out 
through  the  quiet  upstairs  rooms,  she  met  with 
it  the  bustle  of  preparation  downstairs.    It  was  a 
world  she  lived  in  that  made  her  able  to  carry  off 
these  things  without  being  disturbed  by  them, 
a  rosy  secret  world  in  which  she  lived  secure.    A 
richness  at  the  heart  of  things.     She  was  there. 
She  possessed  it  with  her  large  strong  brick-red 
and  a  rose-white  frame  and  her  strong  yellow 
hair.    Did  she,  really  ?    At  any  rate  she  wanted 
to  suggest  that  she  did — that  that  secret  richness 
was  the  heart  of  things.     She  flung  out  boldly 
that  it  was  and  that  she  was  there,  but  a  sort  of 
soft  horrible  slurring  flatness  in  her  voice  sug- 
gested evil,  as  if  a  sort  of  restless  acceptance  of 
something  evil  was  the  price  of  her  carelessness. 
Perhaps  that  was  how  things  were.    Perhaps  that 
was  part  of  taking  each  fair  mask  for  what  it 
shows  itself.    She  made  everyone  else  seem  cloudy 
and  shrivelled  and  dim.      Miriam  took  up  the 
stupendous  envelope  and  held  its  solid  weight  in 
her  hand  as  Mrs.  Kronen  sang  on.    "  All  right," 


HONEYCOMB  101 

she  said,  and  smiled  at  it,  feeling  daring  and  strong. 
Its  arrival  would  have  been  quite  different  if 
Mrs.  Kronen  had  not  been  there ;  this  curious 
powerful  independent  morning  in  the  rose-blue 
room  would  not  have  happened  in  the  same  way 
without  Mrs.  Kronen.  .  .  .  Live,  don't  worry. 
.  .  .  I've  always  been  worrying  and  bothering. 
I'm  going  to  be  like  Mrs.  Kronen ;  but  quite 
different,  because  she  hasn't  the  least  idea  how 
beautiful  things  really  are.  She  doesn't  know 
that  everyone  is  living  a  beautiful  strange  life 
that  has  never  been  lived  before.  If  she  did  she 
would  not  be  ashamed  of  herself.  Miriam  gave 
a  great  sigh  and  smiled. 

H 

Her  breakfast  was  a  feast.  Sitting  back  under 
the  softly  tinted  canopy  with  the  soft  folds  of 
the  bed  curtains  hanging  near  on  either  side  she 
stared  at  the  bright  light  pouring  in  through  the 
lattices.  Her  room  was  a  great  square  of  happy 
light  .  .  .  happy,  happy.  She  gathered  up  all 
the  sadness  she  had  ever  known  and  flung  it  from 
her.  All  the  dark  things  of  the  past  flashed  with 
a  strange  beauty  as  she  flung  them  out.  The 
light  had  been  there  all  the  time  ;    but  she  had 


ioz  HONEYCOMB 

known  it  only  at  moments.  Now  she  knew  what 
she  wanted.  Bright  mornings,  beautiful  bright 
rooms,  a  wilderness  of  beauty  all  round  her  all  the 
time — at  any  cost.  Any  life  that  had  not  these 
things  she  would  refuse.  .  .  .  Roses  in  her  blood 
and  gold  in  her  hair  ...  it  was  something 
belonging  to  them,  something  that  made  them 
gleam.  It  was  her  right ;  even  if  they  gleamed 
only  for  her.  They  gleamed,  she  knew  it.  Youth, 
the  glory  of  youth.  So  strong.  She  had  got 
herself  into  this  beautiful  life,  found  her  way  to 
it ;  she  would  stay  in  it  for  ever,  work  in  it,  make 
money  and  when  she  was  old,  have  soft  pink 
curtains  and  fragrant  things  to  remind  her,  as 
long  as  she  could  lift  her  hand.  No  more  ugliness, 
no  more  schools  or  mean  little  houses.  Luxuries, 
beautiful  gleaming  things  ...  a  secret  happy 
life. 

She  smiled  securely,  with  her  eyes,  the  strange 
happy  smile  that  had  come  in  the  brougham.  .  .  . 

1 5 

How  strong  Mrs.  Kronen  was.  .  .  .  How 
huge  and  strong  she  had  looked  standing  in  the 
hall  while  Mr.  Corrie  said  cruel  laughing  little 
things  about  the  billiard-room  floor.  ..."  She'll 


HONEYCOMB  103 

paint  Madonna  lilies  on  the  table  next."  .  .  . 
Mrs.  Kronen  saying  nothing,  smiling  more  and 
more  without  moving  her  face,  growing  bigger 
and  stronger  and  taller  as  Mr.  Corrie  grumbled 
and  Mr.  Kronen  fidgeted,  cross  and  disappointed 
by  the  hall  fire  and  then  suddenly  lifting  her  head 
and  singing,  a  great  flourish  of  clear  strong  notes 
filling  the  hall  and  pealing  up  through  the  house 
as  she  swept  into  the  drawing-room. 

Singing  song  after  song  to  her  own  loud  accom- 
paniment, great  emphatic  sweeps  of  song,  so  that 
everyone  came  and  sat  about  in  the  room  listening 
and  waiting,  the  men  staring  at  the  back  of  her 
head  as  she  sat  at  the  piano.  Waiting,  for  music 
— they  did  not  know  they  were  waiting  for  music, 
waiting  for  her  to  stop  getting  between  them 
and  the  music.  They  admired  her,  her  magnifi- 
cent singing  and  waited,  unsatisfied,  in  the 
sweetness  of  the  lamp-lit  flower-filled  room  that 
her  music  did  not  touch.  She  sang  on  and  on 
and  they  all  grew  smaller  and  smaller  in  the 
great  sea  of  sound,  more  and  more  hopelessly 
waiting. 


104  HONEYCOMB 

16 

And  Mrs.  Corrie  had  sat  deep  in  her  large  chair, 
dead  and  drowned.  Dead  because  of  something 
she  had  never  known.  Dead  in  ignorance  and 
living  bravely  on — her  sweet  thin  voice  rising 
above  the  gloom  where  she  lay  hid — a  gloom 
where  there  were  no  thoughts.  Nearly  all  women 
were  like  that,  living  in  a  gloom  where  there  were 
no  thoughts.  If  anyone  could  persuade  her  that 
she  was  alive  she  would  do  nothing  but  rush  about 
and  dance  and  sing  .  .  .  how  irritating  that 
would  be  .  .  .  making  men  smile  and  trot  about 
and  look  silly  ...  no  room  for  ideas ;  except 
in  smoking-rooms — and — laboratories.  .  .  .  She 
was  a  good  woman  ;  a  God  woman  ;  the  sweet- 
ness of  her  bones  and  her  thin  sweet  ,voice  of 
tears  and  laughter  were  of  God.  Everyone  knew 
that  and  worshipped  her.  Men's  ideas  were 
devilish  ;  clever  and  mean.  .  .  .  Was  God  •  a 
woman  ?  Was  God  really  irritating  ?  No  one 
could  endure  God  really.  .  .  .  Men  could  not. 
.  .  .  Women  were  of  God  in  some  way.  That 
is  what  men  could  never  forgive  ;  the  superiority 
of  women.  ..."  Perhaps  I  can't  stand  women 
because  I'm  a  sort  of  horrid  man." 


HONEYCOMB  105 

Mrs.  Kronen  was  a  sort  of  man  too.  She  was 
not  perplexed.  But  she  was  a  woman  too — 
because  she  was  not  mean  and  petty  and  fussy  as 
men  are  .  .  .  sitting  tall  and  square  at  the  piano 
with  the  square  tall  form  of  her  husband  standing 
ready  to  turn  the  pages — her  strong  baritone 
voice  rolling  out,  "  Ai-me-moi  .  .  .  car  ton 
charm e-est  etrange  .  .  .  et-je-t'ai-me." 

Recalling  the  song  as  she  sat  back  in  the  alcove 
of  her  bed  motionless,  keeping  the  brightness  of 
her  room  at  its  first  intensity,  Miriam  remembered 
that  it  had  brought  her  a  moment  when  the 
flower-filled  drawing-room  had  seemed  to  be  lit, 
from  within  herself,  a  sudden  light  that  had  kept 
her  very  still  and  made  the  bowls  of  roses  blaze 
with  deepening  colours.  In  her  mind  she  had 
seen  garden  beyond  garden  of  roses,  sunlit, 
brighter  and  brighter  and  had  made  a  rapturous 
prayer.  She  remembered  the  words  .  .  .  God. 
.  .  .  I'm  not  afraid  of  you.  Look  at  the  gardens 
.  .  .  and  something  had  smiled  through  the  lit 
gardens  exultantly,  and  Mrs.  Kronen's  voice  had 
raged  through  the  room  like  a  storm,  "  Ai-me 
moi !  .  .  ."  and  Mr.  Corrie's  eyes  were  strange 


106  HONEYCOMB 

and  hard  with  shadows.  ...  He  knew,  in  some 
strange  way  men  knew  there  were  gardens 
everywhere,  not  always  visible.  Women  did  not 
seem  to  know.  .  .  . 

The  letter  on  her  tray  was  a  sort  of  response  to 
her  prayer. 


CHAPTER   V 
i 

IT  was  quite  a  long  letter — signed  with  a  large 
"  Bob  "  set  crosswise.  It  began  by  asking 
her  advice  about  a  wedding  present  for  Harriett 
and  ended  with  the  suggestion  that  she  should 
meet  him  and  help  him  to  make  a  suitable  selec- 
tion. It  was  written  from  the  British  Chess 
Club,  to  her,  because  Bob  Greville  wanted  to  see 
her.  Harriett's  wedding  present  was  only  an 
excuse.  She  flung  the  envelope  and  the  two 
sheets  of  notepaper,  spread  loose,  on  her  blue 
coverlet  and  smiled  into  her  cup  as  she  finished 
her  coffee.  Old  Bob  did  not  know  that  he  had 
clad  her  in  armour.  He  wanted  to  meet  her  alone. 
They  two  people  were  to  meet  and  talk,  without 
any  reason,  because  they  wanted  to.  But  what 
could  she  have  to  say  to  anyone  who  thought 
that  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures,  even  a  nice 
edition  bound  in  calf,  or  How  to  be  Happy 
though  Married,  suitable  for  a  wedding  present 
for  Harriett,  or  for  anybody  ?     Still,  they  might 

107 


108  HONEYCOMB 

write  to  each  other.  It  was  right  that  letters, 
secret  letters,  should  be  brought  into  her  blue 
room  in  the  morning  with  her  breakfast.  She 
dropped  out  of  bed  smiling  and  sniffed  at  the 
roses  she  had  worn  the  day  before,  standing  in  a 
glass  on  her  washstand,  freshened,  half  faded, 
half  fresh,  intoxicating  as  she  bent  over  them. 
She  dressed,  without  drawing  back  her  curtains, 
in  the  soft  rose-blue  light,  singing  Mrs.  Kronen's 
song  in  an  undertone. 


At  eleven  o'clock  Mrs.  Corrie  swept  into  the 
schoolroom.  Miriam  looked  easily  up  at  her 
from  the  dreamy  thicket  where  she  and  the  chil- 
dren had  spent  their  hour,  united  and  content, 
speaking  in  undertones,  getting  easily  through 
books  that  had  seemed  tiresome  and  indifferent 
the  day  before.  She  had  felt  the  play  of  her  mind 
on  theirs  and  their  steady  adult  response.  They 
had  joined  as  conspirators  in  this  mad  contempt- 
ible business  of  mastering  the  trick  of  the  text- 
book, each  dreaming  the  while  his  own  dream. 

"  You  darlings,"  cried  Mrs.  Corrie,  "  how 
sweet  you  all  look  !  "  They  raised  drunken  eyes 
and   beamed  drowsily   at  her.     "  Give   them   a 


HONEYCOMB  109 

holiday,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie,  raising  her  hands  over 
the  table  like  a  conductor  about  to  start  an 
orchestra.  "  Give  them  a  holiday — a  picnic — 
and  come  and  buy  hats !  " 

In  a  moment  the  room  was  in  an  uproar  of 
capering  figures.  "  Hats !  A  new  hat  for  Rollo ! 
Heaps  of  cash  !    I've  got  heaps  of  cash  !  " 

Miriam  blinked  from  her  thicket.  This  was 
anarchy  ;  she  felt  herself  sliding.  But  they  were 
so  old.  All  so  old  and  experienced.  She  so  young, 
by  so  far  the  youngest  of  the  four. 

3 

Mrs.  Corrie  sat  back  in  the  victoria,  her  face 
alight  under  the  cream  lace  veil  she  had  twisted 
round  her  soft  winter  hat,  and  talked  in  quiet 
clipped  phrases :  soft  shouts.  They  were  driving 
swiftly  through  the  fresh  warmth  of  the  April 
midday. 

They  were  off  for  the  afternoon.  The  com- 
mons gleamed  a  prelude.  Miriam  saw  that  Mrs. 
Corrie  did  not  notice  them  nor  think  of  sweeping 
back  across  them  later  on  through  the  afternoon 
air  and  seeing  them  move  and  gleam  in  the  after- 
noon light.  She  did  not  think  of  the  bright 
shops,  the  strangely  dyed  artificial  flowers  with 


no  HONEYCOMB 

their  curious  fascinating  smell  interwoven  with 
the  strange  warm  smell  of  velvet  and  chenille 
and  straw.  .  .  .  Miriam  had  once  bought  a  hat 
in  a  shop  in  Kensington.  As  long  as  it  lasted  it 
had  kept  for  her  whenever  she  looked  at  its 
softly  dyed  curiously  plaited  straw  something  of 
the  exciting  fascination  of  the  shop,  the  curious 
faint  flat  odours  of  millinery,  the  peculiar  dim 
warm  smell  of  silks  and  velvets — silk,  China  and 
Japan,  silkworms  weaving  shining  threads  in  the 
dark.  Even  when  it  had  become  associated  with 
outings  and  events  and  shabby  with  exposure  it 
remained  each  time  she  took  it  afresh  from  its 
box  of  wrappings,  a  mysterious  sacred  thing  ; 
and  the  soft  blending  of  its  colours,  the  coiled 
restraint  of  its  shape,  the  texture  of  its  snuggled 
trimmings  were  a  support,  refreshing  her  thoughts. 
She  had  never  known  anyone  who  went  regularly 
to  good  hatshops ;  the  sense  of  them  as  a  part  of 
life  was  linked  only  with  Mrs.  Kronen — Mrs. 
Kronen's  little  close  toque  made  of  delicately 
shaded  velvet  violets  and  lined  with  satin,  her 
silky  peacock  blue  straw  shining  with  rich  filmy 
tones,  its  mass  of  dull  shot  blue-green  ribbon 
and  the  soft  rose  pink  of  its  velvet  roses.  These 
hats  had  excited  Mrs.  Corrie  ;    the  hats  and  the 


HONEYCOMB  in 

sand  -  coloured  silk  dust  cloak  explained  her 
cheque  and  her  sudden  happiness.  But  they 
only  made  her  want  to  buy  hats.  The  going  and 
the  shops  were  nothing  to  her.  She  talked  about 
the  Kronens  as  they  drove,  speaking  as  though 
she  wanted  Miriam  to  hear  without  answering. 
"  She  knows  Mrs.  Kronen  fascinates  me,"  thought 
Miriam. 

"  Ain't  they  a  pair,  lordy  .  .  .  him  divorced 
and  her  divorced  and  then  marryin'  each  other. 
Ain't  it  scandalous,  eh  ?  " 

People  like  the  Corries  disapproved  of  people 
like  the  Kronens,  but  had  them  to  stay  with  them 
and  were  excited  about  their  clothes.  Miriam 
returned  to  listen  to  the  singing  of  her  body ; 
it  would  sing  until  they  got  to  the  station.  As 
she  listened  she  held  firmly  clasped  the  letter  she 
had  addressed  to  the  British  Chess  Club  to  say 
she  would  be  nowhere  near  London  until  the 
weddings.  "  She  doesn't  care  a  rap  about  him — 
not  a  teeny  rap  .  .  .  she's  a  wise  lady  .  .  . 
dollars — that's  the  thing,"  whispered  Mrs.  Corrie 
gaily.  What  does  she  want  me  to  say?  thought 
Miriam.  What  would  she  say  if  I  pretended 
to  agree  ? 

Should    she    tell    her    about    the    weddings  ? 


ii2  HONEYCOMB 

Perhaps  not.  It  would  be  time  enough,  she  re- 
flected rapidly,  when  she  had  to  ask  permission 
to  go  home  for  them.  Mrs.  Corrie  had  not 
asked  her  a  single  question  about  things  at  home, 
and  if  she  were  to  say,  "  We  used  to  live  in  a  big 
house  and  my  father  lost  nearly  all  his  money 
and  we  live  now  in  a  tiny  villa  and  two  of  my 
sisters  are  to  be  married,"  it  would  break  into 
this  strange  easy  new  life.  It  would  break  the 
charm  and  not  bring  her  any  nearer  to  Mrs. 
Corrie.  And  Mrs.  Corrie  would  not  really 
understand  about  the  home  troubles.  Mrs. 
Corrie  had  always  been  lonely  and  sad,  inside. 
She  had  been  an  orphan,  but  brought  up  by  a 
wealthy  uncle  and  always  living  in  wealth  and 
now  she  seemed  to  think  about  nothing  but  the 
children  and  the  house  and  the  garden — hating 
theatres  and  dances  and  never  going  to  them  or 
paying  visits  or  seeing  the  wonder  of  anything. 
She  would  only  say,  "  Don't  you  marry  yourself 
off,  young  lady,  marriage  is  a  fraud.  You  wait 
for  a  wealthy  one."  Whatever  one  said  to  her, 
whatever  joy  one  showed  her  would  lead  to  that. 
But  the  two  weddings  hovered  about  the 
commons.  They  were  a  great  possession.  No- 
thing  to   worry   about   in   them.     Gerald   and 


HONEYCOMB  113 

Bennett  who  had  managed  everything  since  the 
smash  would  manage  them.  Sarah  and  Harriet 
would  be  married  from  the  little  villa  and  would 
be  Mrs.  Brodie  and  Mrs.  Ducayne  just  like 
anybody  else.  So  safe.  And  she  herself,  free, 
getting  interesting  letters,  going  up  to  town 
with  Mrs.  Corrie,  no  worry,  spring  hats  and  the 
commons  and  garden  waiting  for  them.  She  was 
sure  she  did  not  want  to  see  the  commons  over- 
burdened by  the  idea  of  her  own  wedding.  Two 
was  enough  for  the  present.  Of  course,  some 
day — someone,  somewhere,  wonderful  and  differ- 
ent from  everyone  else.  Cash — no,  not  business 
and  cigars  and  offices  .  .  .  the  city,  horrible 
bloated  men  with  shapeless  figures,  horrible 
chemists'  shops  advertising  pick-me-ups  ...  a 
cottage — a  cottage.  Why  did  people  laugh  at 
love  in  a  cottage  ?  The  outsides  of  cottages  were 
the  best  part,  everyone  said.  They  were  dark 
inside ;  but  why  not  ?  A  lamp  ;  and  outside 
the  garden  and  the  light. 

"  She's  had  all  kinds  of  operations,"  mused 
Mrs.  Corrie. 

"Really?" 

"  Deadly  awful.     In   nursing  homes.     She'll 
never  have  any  kiddies," 
1 


H4  HONEYCOMB 

Were  there  cold  shadows  on  everything,  every- 
where ? 

She  turned  a  pleading  face  to  Mrs.  Corrie. 
They  were  driving  into  the  station  yard. 

"  It's  true,  true,  true,"  laughed  Mrs.  Corrie. 
"  She  doesn't  care,  she  doesn't  want  any.  They're 
all  like  that,  that  sort." 

Miriam  mused  intensely.  She  felt  Mrs.  Kronen 
ought  to  be  there  to  answer.  She  had  some 
secret  Mrs.  Corrie  did  not  possess.  Mrs.  Corrie 
looked  suddenly  small  and  mild  and  funny. 
Why  did  she  think  it  dreadful  that  Mrs.  Kronen 
should  have  no  children  ?  There  was  nothing 
wonderful  in  having  children.  It  was  better  to 
sing.  She  was  perfectly  sure  that  she  herself  did 
not  want  children.  ..."  Superior  women  don't 
marry,"  she  said,  "  sir  she  said,  sir  she  said, 
su,  per,  z,  or  women" — but  that  meant  blue 
stockings. 
1  4 

"  I  don't  want  a  silly  hat,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie, 
as  their  hansom  drew  up  in  bright  sunlight  out- 
side a  milliner's  at  the  southern  end  of  Regent 
Street.  "  Let's  buy  a  real  lovely  teapot  or  a 
Bartolozzi  or  somethin'.  What  fun  to  go  home 
with    somethin'    real    nice.     Eh  ?      A   real    real 


HONEYCOMB  115 

beauty  Dresden  teapot,"  she  chanted,  floating 
into  the  dimness  of  the  shop  where  large  hats 
standing  on  long  straight  stands  flared  softly 
like  blossoms  in  the  twilight. 

She  swept  about  in  her  flowing  lace-trimmed 
twine-coloured  overcoat  on  the  green  velvet 
carpet,  or  stood  ruthlessly  trying  on  a  hat, 
pressing  its  wire  frame  to  fit  her  head,  crushing 
her  fingers  into  tucked  tulle,  talking  and  trying, 
and  discarding  until  the  collection  was  exhausted. 
Miriam  sat  angry  and  admiring,  wondering  at  the 
subdued  helplessness  of  the  satin-clad  assistant, 
sorry  for  the  discarded  hats  lying  carelessly  about, 
their  glory  dimmed.  All  the  hats,  whatever 
their  shape  or  colour  seemed  to  her  to  decorate 
the  bronze  head  and  the  twine-coloured  coat. 
The  little  toques  gave  slenderness  and  willowy 
height,  and  the  large  flowered  ribboned  hats,  the 
moment  a  veil  draped  the  boniness  of  the  face 
made,  Miriam  felt,  an  entrancing  picturesqueness. 
With  each  hat  Mrs.  Corrie  addressed  the  large 
mirror  calling  herself  a  freak,  a  sketch,  a  night- 
mare, a  real  real  fogey. 


u6  HONEYCOMB 

5 

The  process  seemed  endless  and  Miriam  sat  at 
last  scourging  herself  with  angry  questions 
"  Why  doesn't  she  decide,"  she  found  herself 
repeating  almost  aloud,  her  hot  tired  eyes  turn- 
ing for  relief  to  the  soft  guipure-edged  tussore 
curtain  screening  the  lower  part  of  the  window, 
"  what  kind  of  hat  she  really  wants  and  then 
look  at  the  few  most  like  it  and  perhaps  have  one 
altered?  .  .  ."  "It's  so  awfully  silly  not  to  have 
a  plan.  She'll  go  on  simply  for  ever."  But  the 
soft  curtain  running  so  evenly  along  its  smooth 
clean  brass  rod  was  restful,  and  plan  or  no  plan 
the  trouble  would  presently  come  to  an  end  and 
there  would  be  no  discomforts  to  face  when  it 
was  over — no  vulgar  bun  shops,  no  struggling 
on  to  a  penny  'bus  with  your  ride  perhaps  spoiled 
by  a  dreadful  neighbour,  but  Regent  Street  in 
the  bright  sun,  a  hansom,  a  smart  obliging  driver 
with  a  buttonhole,  skimming  along  to  tea  some- 
where, the  first-class  journey  home,  the  carriage 
at  the  station,  the  green  commons. 

"  Perhaps,"  said  the  assistant  at  last  in  a 
cheerful  suggestive  furious  voice,  flinging  aside 
with  just  Mrs.  Corrie's  cheerful  abandon,  a  large 


HONEYCOMB  117 

cream  lace  hat  with  a  soft  fresh  mass  of  tiny 
banksia  roses  under  its  left  brim,  "Perhaps 
moddom  will  allow  me  to  make  her  a  shape  and 
trim  it  to  her  own  design." 

Mrs.  Corrie  stood  arrested  in  the  middle  of 
the  green  velvet  floor.  Wearily  Miriam  faced 
the  possibility  of  the  development  of  this  fresh 
opportunity  for  going  on  for  ever. 

"  Wouldn't  that  be  lovely  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Corrie, 
turning  to  her  enthusiastically. 

"  Yes,"  said  Miriam  eagerly.  Both  women 
were  facing  her  and  she  felt  that  anything  would 
be  better  than  their  united  contemplation  of  her 
brown  stuff  dress  with  its  square  sleeves  and  her 
brown  straw  hat  with  black  ribbon  and  its  yellow 
paper  buttercups. 

"  Can't  be  did  though,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie  in  a 
cold  level  voice,  turning  swiftly  back  to  the  hats 
massed  in  a  confused  heap  on  the  mahogany  slab. 
Standing  over  them  and  tweaking  at  one  and 
another  as  she  spoke  she  made  a  quiet  little  speech, 
indicating  that  such  and  such  might  do  for  the 
garden  and  such  others  for  driving,  some  dozen 
altogether  she  finally  ordered  to  be  sent  at  once 
to  an  address  in  Brook  Street  where  she  would 
make   her   final   selection   whilst   the  messenger 


u8  HONEYCOMB 

waited.  "  Have  you  got  the  address  all  right  ?  ' 
she  wound  up  ;  "  so  kind  of  you."  "  Come 
along,  you  poor  thing  you  look  worn  out,"  she 
cried  to  Miriam,  without  looking  at  her  as  she 
swept  from  the  shop.  She  waved  her  sunshade 
at  a  passing  hansom  and  as  it  drew  sharply  up 
with  an  exciting  clatter  near  the  curb  she  grasped 
Miriam's  arm,  "  Shall  we  try  Perrin's  ?  It's 
only  three  doors  up."  Miriam  glanced  along  and 
caught  a  glimpse  of  another  hat  shop.  "  Do  you 
really  want  to  ?  "  she  suggested  reluctantly. 
"  No  !  No  !  not  a  bit  old  spoil  sport.  Chum 
yong,  jump  in,"  laughed  Mrs.  Corrie. 

"  Oh,  if  you  really  want  to,"  began  Miriam, 
but  Mrs.  Corrie,  singing  out  the  address  to  the 
driver  was  putting  her  into  the  cab  and  showing 
her  how  to  make  an  easy  passage  for  the  one  who 
gets  last  into  a  hansom  by  slipping  into  the  near 
corner.  Her  appreciation  of  this  little  manoeuvre 
helped  her  over  her  contrition  and  she  responded 
with  gay  insincerity  to  Mrs.  Corrie's  assurance 
of  the  fun  they  would  have  over  the  hats  at  Mrs. 
Kronen's.  .  .  .  Tea  at  Mrs.  Kronen's  then. 
How  strange  and  alarming  .  .  .  but  she  felt  too 
tired  to  sustain  a  tete-a-tete  at  a  smart  tea  shop. 
"  After  tea  we'll  drop  into  a  china  shop  and  get 


HONEYCOMB  119 

somethin'  real  nice,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie  excitedly, 
as  they  bowled  up  Regent  Street. 

6 

They  found  Mrs.  Kronen  in  a  mauve  and  white 
drawing-room,  reclining  on  a  mauve  and  white 
striped  settee  in  a  pale  mauve  tea  gown.  On  a 
large  low  table  a  frail  mauve  tea  service  stood 
ready,  and  as  Mrs.  Kronen  rose  tall  to  welcome 
them  dropping  on  to  the  mauve  carpet  a  little 
volume  bound  in  pale  green  velvet.  On  a(  second 
low  table  were  strawberries  in  a  shallow  wide 
bowl,  a  squat  jug  brimming  with  cream,  dark 
wedding  cake  hiding  a  pewter  plate,  a  silken  bag 
unloosed,  showing  marvellous  large  various  sweet- 
meats heavy  against  its  silk  lining.  As  Mrs.  Kronen 
slurred  her  fingers  across  Miriam's  hand  she  ordered 
the  manservant  who  had  dipped  and  gathered  up 
the  green  velvet  volume  to  ask  for  the  tea-cakes. 

7 
Then  this  was  "  Society."  To  come  so  easily 
up  from  the  Comes'  beautiful  home,  via  the 
West  End  hat  shop  to  this  wonderful  West  End 
flat  and  eat  strawberries  in  April.  ...  If  only 
the  home  people  could  see.    Her  fatigue  vanished. 


120  HONEYCOMB 

Secure  from  Mrs.  Kronen's  notice  she  sat  in  a 
mauve  and  white  striped  chair  and  contemplated 
her  surroundings. 

While  they  were  waiting  for  the  tea-cakes, 
Mrs.  Kronen  trailed  about  the  mauve  floor 
reciting  her  impressions  of  the  weather.  "  So 
lovely,"  she  intoned  in  her  curious  half-Cockney. 
"  I  almost — went — out.  But  I  haven't.  I — 
haven't — stirred.  It  is  lovely  inside  on  this  sort 
of  spring  day — the  light" 

She  paused  and  swept  about.  There  is  some- 
thing about  her,  thought  Miriam.  It's  true,  the 
light  inside  on  a  clear  spring  day.  ...  I  never 
thought  of  that.  It  is  somehow  spring  in  here 
in  the  middle  of  London  in  some  real  way.  Her 
blood  leaped  and  sang  as  it  had  done  driving 
across  the  commons ;  but  even  more  sweetly 
and  keenly.  It  wouldn't  be,  in  a  dingy  room, 
even  in  the  country.  .  .  .  It's  an  essence — some- 
thing you  feel  in  the  right  surroundings.  .  .  . 
What  chances  these  people  have.  They  get  the 
most  out  of  everything.  Get  everything  in 
advance  and  over  and  over  again.  They  can  go 
into  the  country  any  minute  as  well  as  have  clear 
light  rooms.  Nothing  is  ever  grubby.  And 
London  there,  all  round  ;   London  .  .  .  London 


HONEYCOMB  121 

was  a  soft,  sea-like  sound  ;  a  sound  shutting  in 
the  spring.  The  spring  gleamed  and  thrilled 
through  everything  in  the  pure  bright  room.  .  .  . 
She  hoped  Mrs.  Kronen  would  say  no  more  about 
the  light.  Light,  light,  light.  As  the  manservant 
brewed  the  tea  and  the  silver  teapot  shone  in  the 
light  as  he  moved  it — silver  and  strange  black 
splashes  of  light — caught  and  moving  in  the 
room.  Drawing  off  her  gloves  she  felt  as  if  she 
could  touch  the  flowing  light.  .  .  .  Flowing  in 
out  of  the  dawn,  moving  and  flowing  and  brood- 
ing and  changing  all  day,  in  rooms.  Mrs.  Kronen 
was  back  on  her  settee  sitting  upright  in  her 
mauve  gown,  all  strong  soft  curves.  "  That  play 
of  Wilde's  .  .  ."  she  said.  Miriam  shook  at  the 
name.  "  You  ought  not  to  miss  it.  He — has — 
such — genius P  Wilde  .  .  .  Wilde  ...  a  play 
in  the  spring — someone  named  Wilde.  Wild 
spring.  That  was  genius.  There  was  something 
in  the  name.  ..."  Never  go  to  the  theatre  ; 
never,  never,  never,"  Mrs.  Corrie  was  saying, 
"  too  much  of  a  bore."  Genius  .  .  .  genius  is 
an  infinite  capacity  for  taking  pains.  Capacity. 
A  silly  definition  ;  like  a  proverb — made  up  by 
somebody  who  wanted  to  explain.  .  .  .  Wylde, 
Wilde.  .  .  .  Spring.  .  .  .  Genius. 


122  HONEYCOMB 

8 
The  little  feast  was  over  and  Mrs.  Kronen  was 
puffing  at  a  cigarette  when  the  hats  were  an- 
nounced. As  the  fine  incense  reached  her  Miriam 
regretted  that  she  had  not  confessed  to  being  a 
smoker.  The  suggestion  of  tobacco  brought  the 
charm  of  the  afternoon  to  its  height.  When  the 
magic  of  the  scented  cloud  drew  her  eyes  to  Mrs. 
Kronen's  face  it  was  almost  intolerable  in  its 
keenness.  She  gazed  wondering  whether  Mrs. 
Kronen  felt  so  nearly  wild  with  happiness  as  she 
did  herself.  .  .  .  Life  what  are  you — what  is 
life  ?  she  almost  said  aloud.  The  face  was  up- 
lifted as  it  had  been  in  the  photograph,  but  with 
all  the  colour,  the  firm  bows  of  gold  hair,  the 
colour  in  the  face  and  strong  white  pillar  of  neck, 
the  eyes  closed  instead  of  staring  upwards  and 
the  rather  full  mouth  flattened  and  drooping 
with  its  weight  into  a  sort  of  tragic  shapeliness — 
like  some  martyr  .  .  .  that  picture  by  Rossetti, 
Beata  Beatrix,  thought  Miriam  .  .  .  perfect 
reality.  She  liked  Mrs.  Kronen  for  smoking  like 
that.  She  was  not  doing  it  for  show.  She  would 
have  smoked  in  the  same  way  if  she  had  been  alone. 
She  probably  wished  she  was,  as  Mrs.  Corrie  did 


HONEYCOMB  123 

not  smoke.  How  she  must  have  hated  missing 
her  smokes  at  Newlands,  unless  she  had  smoked 
in  her  room. 

"  It's — a — mis-take,"  said  Mrs.  Kronen  in- 
credulously, in  response  to  the  man's  announce- 
ment of  the  arrival  of  the  hats.  She  waved  her 
cigarette  "  imperiously,"  thought  Miriam,  "  how 
she  enjoys  showing  off  "  .  .  .  to  and  fro  in  time 
with  her  words.  Mrs.  Corrie  rose  laughing  and 
explaining  and  apologising.  Waving  her  cigar- 
ette about  once  more  Mrs.  Kronen  ordered  the 
hats  to  be  brought  in  and  her  maid  to  be  sum- 
moned, but  retained  her  expression  of  vexed 
incredulity.  She's  simply  longing  for  us  to  be 
off  now,  thought  Miriam,  and  changed  her 
opinion  a  few  moments  later  when  Mrs.  Kronen, 
assuming  on  the  settee  the  reclining  position  in 
which  they  had  found  her  when  they  came  in, 
disposed  one  by  one  of  the  hats  as  Mrs.  Corrie 
and  the  maid  freed  them  from  their  boxes  and 
wrappings,  with  a  little  flourish  of  the  cigarette 
and  a  few  slow  words.  ..."  Im-poss-i-ble ; 
not-in-key- with-your-lines ;  slightly  too  ingenue" 
etc. :  to  three  or  four  she  gave  a  grudging 
approval,  whereupon  Mrs.  Corrie  who  was 
laughing  and  pouncing  from  box  to  box  would 


124  HONEYCOMB 

stand  upright  and  pace  holding  the  favoured  hat 
rakishly  on  her  head.  The  selection  was  soon 
made  and  Miriam,  whose  weariness  had  returned 
with  the  millinery,  was  sent  off  to  instruct  the 
messenger  that  three  hats  had  been  selected  and 
a  bill  might  be  sent  to  Brook  Street  in  the  morn- 
ing. 

As  she  was  treating  with  the  messenger  in  the 
little  mauve  and  white  hall,  Mrs.  Corrie  came 
out  and  tapped  her  on  the  shoulder.  Turning, 
Miriam  found  her  smiling  and  mysterious. 
"  We're  going  by  the  5.30,"  she  whispered. 
"  Would  you  like  to  go  for  a  walk  for  half  an  hour 
and  come  back  here  ?  " 

"  Rather ! "  said  Miriam  heartily,  with  a 
break  in  her  voice  and  feeling  utterly  crushed. 
The  beautiful  clear  room.  She  loved  it  and  be- 
longed to  it.  She  was  turned  out.  "  All  right," 
smiled  Mrs.  Corrie  encouragingly  and  disappeared. 
Under  the  eyes  of  the  messenger  and  the  servants 
who  were  coming  out  of  the  boudoir  laden  with 
hat  boxes,  she  got  herself  out  through  the  door. 


CHAPTER   VI 

i 

THE  West  End  street  .  .  .  grey  buildings 
rising  on  either  side,  feeling  away  into  the 
approaching  distance — angles  sharp  against  the 
sky  .  .  .  softened  angles  of  buildings  against 
other  buildings  .  .  .  high  moulded  angles  soft 
as  crumb,  with  deep  undershadows  .  .  .  creepers 
fraying  from  balconies  .  .  .  strips  of  window 
blossoms  across  the  buildings,  scarlet,  yellow, 
high  up ;  a  confusion  of  lavender  and  white 
pouching  out  along  a  dipping  sill  ...  a  wash  of 
green  creeper  up  a  white  painted  house  front  .  .  . 
patches  of  shadow  and  bright  light.  .  .  .  Sounds 
of  visible  near  things  streaked  and  scored  with 
broken  light  as  they  moved,  led  off  into  untraced 
distant  sounds  .  .  .  chiming  together. 


Wide  golden  streaming  Regent  Street  was  quite 
near.    Some  near  narrow  street  would  lead  into  it. 


125 


126  HONEYCOMB 

3 

Flags  of  pavement  flowing  along  —  smooth 
clean  grey  squares  and  oblongs,  faintly  polished, 
shaping  and  drawing  away — sliding  into  each 
other.  ...  I  am  part  of  the  dense  smooth  clean 
paving  stone  .  .  .  sunlit ;  gleaming  under  dark 
winter  rain ;  shining  under  warm  sunlit  rain, 
sending  up  a  fresh  stony  smell  .  .  .  always  there 
.  .  .  dark  and  light  .  .  .  dawn,  stealing  .  .  . 

4 

Life  streamed  up  from  the  close  dense  stone. 
With  every  footstep  she  felt  she  could  fly. 

5 

The  little  dignified  high -built  cut- through 
street,  with  its  sudden  walled-in  church,  swept 
round  and  opened  into  brightness  and  a  clamour 
of  central  sounds  ringing  harshly  up  into  the  sky. 

6 

The  pavement  of  heaven. 

To  walk  along  the  radiant  pavement  of  sunlit 
Regent  Street  forever. 


HONEYCOMB  127 

7 

She  sped   along   looking   at   nothing.     Shops 

passed  by,  bright  endless  caverns  screened  with 

glass  ...  the   bright    teeth   of   a   grand   piano 

running  along  the  edge  of  its  darkness,  a  cataract 

of  light  pouring  down  its  raised  lid ;    forests  of 

hats ;     dresses,    shining   against  darkness,  bright 

headless    crumpling    stalks ;    sly,    silky,    ominous 

furs ;  metals,  cold  and  clanging,  brandishing  the 

light;  close  prickling  fire  of  jewels  .  .  .  strange 

people  who  bought  these  things,   touched  and 

bought  them. 

8 

She  pulled  up  sharply  in  front  of  a  window. 
The  pavement  round  it  was  clear,  allowing  her 
to  stand  rooted  where  she  had  been  walking,  in 
the  middle  of  the  pavement,  in  the  midst  of  the 
tide  flowing  from  the  clear  window,  a  soft  fresh 
tide  of  sunlit  colours  .  .  .  clear  green  glass 
shelves  laden  with  shapes  of  fluted  glass,  glinting 
transparencies  of  mauve  and  amber  and  green, 
rose-pearl  and  milky  blue,  welded  to  a  flowing 
tide,  freshening  and  flowing  through  her  blood, 
a  sea  rising  and  falling  with  her  breathing. 


128  HONEYCOMB 

9 

The  edge  had  gone  from  the  keenness  of  the 
light.  The  street  was  a  happy,  sunny,  simple 
street — small.  She  was  vast.  She  could  gather 
up  the  buildings  in  her  arms  and  push  them 
away,  clearing  the  sky  ...  a  strange  darkling 
and  she  would  sleep.  She  felt  drowsy,  a  drowsi- 
ness in  her  brain  and  limbs  and  great  strength, 
and  hunger. 

A  clock  told  her  she  had   been    away   from 

Brook  Street  ten  minutes.     Twenty  minutes  to 

spare.     What  should  she  do  with  her  strength  ? 

Talk  to  someone  or  write  .  .  .  Bob  ;   where  was 

Bob  ?    Somewhere  in  the  West  End.    She  would 

write  from  the  West  End  a  note  to  him  in  the 

West  End. 

10 

There  were  no  cheap  shops  in  Regent  Street. 
She  looked  about.  Across  the  way  a  little  side 
street  showing  a  small  newspaper  shop  offered  help. 

II 

Thoroughly  frightened  she  hurried  with 
clenched  hands  down  the  little  mean  street  ready 
to  give  up  her  scheme  at  the  first  sight  of  an  un- 
friendly eye.      "  We  went  through  those  awful 


HONEYCOMB  129 

side  streets  off  the  West  End  ;  I  was  terrified  ; 
I  didn't  know  where  he  was  driving  us,"  Mrs. 
Poole  had  said  about  a  cabman  driving  to  the 
theatre  .  .  .  and  her  face  as  she  sat  in  her  thick 
pink  dress  by  the  dining-room  fire  had  been 
cunning  and  mean  and  full  of  terror.  A  small 
shop  appeared  close  at  hand,  there  were  news- 
paper posters  propped  outside  it  and  its  window 
was  full  of  fly-blown  pipes,  toilet  requisites, 
stationery  and  odd-looking  books.  "  Letters  may 
be  left  here,"  said  a  dirty  square  of  cardboard  in 
the  corner  of  the  window.  "  That's  all  right," 
thought  Miriam,  "  it's  a  sort  of  agency."  She 
plunged  into  the  gloomy  interior.  "  Yes !  " 
shouted  a  tall  stout  man  with  a  red  coarse  face 
coming  forward,  as  if  she  had  asked  something 
that  had  made  him  angry.  "  I  want  some  note- 
paper,  just  a  little,  the  smallest  quantity  you 
have  and  an  envelope,"  said  Miriam,  quivering 
and  panic-stricken  in  the  hostile  atmosphere. 
The  man  turned  and  whisked  a  small  packet  off 
a  shelf,  throwing  it  down  on  the  counter  before 
her.  "  One  penny  !  "  bellowed  the  man  as  she 
took  it  up.  "  Oh,  thank  you,"  murmured 
Miriam  ingratiatingly  putting  down  twopence. 
"  Do    you    sell    pencils  ?  "      The    man's    great 

K 


i3o  HONEYCOMB 

fingers  seemed  an  endless  time  wrenching  a  small 
metal-sheathed  pencil  from  its  card.  The  street 
outside  would  have  closed  in  and  swallowed 
her  up  forever  if  she  did  not  quickly  get 
away. 

12 

"  Dear  Mr.  Greville,"  she  wrote  in  a  clear  bold 
hand.  .  .  .  He  won't  expect  me  to  have  that 
kind  of  handwriting,  like  his  own,  but  stronger. 
He'll  admire  it  on  the  page  and  then  hear  a  man's 
voice,  Pater's  voice  talking  behind  it  and  not  like 
it.  Me.  He'd  be  a  little  afraid  of  it.  She  felt 
her  hard  self  standing  there  as  she  wrote,  and 
shifted  her  feet  a  little,  raising  one  heel  from  the 
ground,  trying  to  feminise  her  attitude  ;  but  her 
hat  was  hard  against  her  forehead,  her  clothes 
would  not  flow.  ..."  Just  imagine  that  I  am 
in  town — I  could  have  helped  you  with  your 
shopping  if  I  had  known  I  was  coming.  .  .  ." 
The  first  page  was  half  filled.  She  glanced  at 
her  neighbours,  a  woman  on  one  side  and  a  man 
on  the  other,  both  bending  over  telegram  forms 
in  a  careless  preoccupied  way — wealthy,  with 
expensive  clothes  with  West  End  lines.  .  .  . 
Regent  Street  was  Salviati's.  It  was  Liberty's 
and  a  mu?ic  shop  and  the  shop  with  the  chickens. 


HONEYCOMB  131 

But  most  of  all  it  was  Salviati's.  She  feared  the 
officials  behind  the  long  grating  could  see  by  the 
expression  of  her  shoulders  that  she  was  a  scrubby 
person  who  was  breaking  the  rules  by  using  one 
of  the  little  compartments  with  its  generosity  of 
ink  and  pen  and  blotting  paper,  for  letter  writing. 
Someone  was  standing  impatiently  just  behind 
her,  waiting  for  her  place.  "  Telle  est  la  vie," 
she  concluded  with  a  flourish,  "  yours  sincerely," 
and  addressed  the  envelope  in  almost  illegible 
scrawls.  Guiltily  she  bought  a  stamp  and 
dropped  the  letter  with  a  darkening  sense  of 
guilt  into  the  box.  It  fell  with  a  little  muffled 
plop  that  resounded  through  her  as  she  hurried 
away  towards  Brook  Street.  She  walked  quickly, 
to  make  everything  surrounding  her  move  more 
quickly.  London  revelled  and  clamoured  softly 
all  round  her  ;  she  strode  her  swiftest  heighten- 
ing its  clamorous  joy.  The  West  End  people, 
their  clothes,  their  carriages  and  hansom,  their 
clean  bright  spring-filled  houses,  their  restaurants 
and  the  theatres  waiting  for  them  this  evening, 
their  easy  way  with  each  other,  the  mysterious 
something  behind  their  faces,  was  hers.  She, 
too,  now  had  a  mysterious  secret  face — a  West 
End  life  of  her  own.  .  .  . 


CHAPTER   VII 
i 

THE  next  morning  there  was  a  letter  from 
Bob  containing  a  page  of  description  of 
his  dull  afternoon  at  his  club  within  half  a  mile 
of  her.  "  Let  me  know,  my  dear  girl,"  it  went 
on,  "  whenever  you  escape  from  your  gaolers, 
and  do  not  suffer  the  thought  of  old  Bob's 
making  himself  responsible  for  all  the  telegrams 
you  may  send  to  cloud  your  joyous  young  inde- 
pendence." 

Miriam  recoiled  from  the  thought  of  a  dull 
bored  man  looking  to  her  for  enlivenment  of  the 
moving  coloured  wonder  of  London  and  felt 
that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Corrie  were  anything  but 
gaolers.  She  was  not  sorry  that  she  had  missed 
the  opportunity  of  seeing  him.  "  Meanwhile 
write  and  tell  me  your  thoughts,"  was  the  only 
sentence  that  had  appealed  to  her  in  the  letter  ; 
but  she  was  sure  she  could  not  whole-heartedly 
offer  her  thoughts  as  entertainment  to  a  man  who 
spent  his  time  feeling  dull  in  a  club.    He's  .  .  . 

132 


HONEYCOMB  133 

blase,  that's  it,  she  reflected.  Perhaps  it  would 
be  better  not  to  write  again.  He's  not  my  sort 
a  bit,  she  pondered  with  a  sudden  dim  sense  of 
his  view  of  her  as  a  dear  girl.  But  she  knew  she 
wanted  to  retain  him  to  decorate  her  breakfast 
tray  with  letters. 


The  following  day  Mrs.  Corrie  decided  that 
she  did  not  want  to  keep  the  hats.  She  would 
spend  the  money  intended  for  them  on  sketching 
lessons.  An  artist  should  come  once  a  week  and 
teach  them  all  to  paint  from  Nature.  This 
decision  excited  Miriam  deeply,  putting  every- 
thing else  out  of  her  mind.  It  promised  the 
satisfaction  of  a  desire  she  had  cherished  with 
bitter  hopelessness  ever  since  her  schooldays 
when  every  Friday  had  brought  the  necessity 
of  choking  down  her  longing  to  join  the  little 
crowd  of  girls  who  took  "  extras "  and  filed 
carelessly  in  to  spend  a  magic  afternoon 
amongst  easels  and  casts  in  the  large  room.  The 
old  longing  came  leaping  back  higher  than  it 
had  ever  done  before,  making  a  curious  eager 
smouldering  in  her  chest — as  Mrs.  Corrie  talked. 
An  old  sketch-book  was  brought  out  and  Mrs. 


134  HONEYCOMB 

Corrie  spent  the  morning  making  drawings  of 
the  heads  of  the  children  as  they  sat  at  lessons. 
The  book  was  almost  full  of  drawings  of  the 
children's  heads.  Besides  the  heads  there  were 
rough  sketches  of  people  Miriam  did  not  know. 
The  first  half-dozen  pages  were  covered  with 
small  outlines,  hands,  feet,  eyes,  thumbs ;  a 
few  lines  suggesting  a  body.  These  pages  seemed 
full  of  life.  But  the  sketches  of  the  children  and 
the  unknown  people,  sitting  posed,  in  profile, 
looking  up,  looking  down,  full  face,  quarter  face, 
three-quarters,  depressed  her.  Learning  to  draw 
did  not  seem  worth  while  if  this  was  the  result. 
The  early  pages  haunted  her  memory  as  she  sat 
over  the  children's  lessons.  Feet,  strange  things 
stepping  out,  going  through  the  world,  running, 
dancing  ;  the  silent  feet  of  people  sitting  in 
chairs  pondering  affairs  of  state.  Eyes,  looking 
at  everything  ;  looking  at  the  astonishingness  of 
everything. 

3 
"  That's  the  half-crown  Mrs.  Corrie  gave  me 
for  the  cabman,  and  the  shilling  for  my  tea," 
said  Miriam,  handing  the  coins  to  her  companion 
as  they  bowled  over  Waterloo  Bridge.  Seagulls 
were  rising  and  dipping  about  the  rim  of  the 


HONEYCOMB  135 

bridge  and  the  sunlight  lay  upon  the  water  and 
shimmered  and  flashed  along  the  forms  of  the 
seagulls  as  they  hovered  and  wheeled  in  the  clear 
air.  Miriam  glanced  at  them  through  the  little 
side  window  of  the  hansom  with  a  remote  keen 
part  of  her  consciousness  .  .  .  light  flashing 
from  the  moving  wing  of  a  seagull,  the  blue 
water,  the  brilliant  sky,  the  bite  of  sun-scorched 
air  upon  her  cheek,  the  sound  about  her  like  the 
sound  of  the  sea.  ...  As  she  turned  back  to  the 
shaded  enclosure  of  the  hansom  these  things 
shrivelled  and  vanished  and  left  her  dumb, 
helplessly  poised  between  two  worlds.  This 
shabby  part  of  London  and  the  seaside  bridge 
could  make  no  terms  with  the  man  at  her  side,  his 
soft  grey  suit,  his  soft  grey  felt  hat,  the  graceful 
crook  of  his  crossed  knees,  his  gleaming  spats,  the 
glitter  of  the  light  upon  patent  leather  shoes. 
He  was  gazing  out  ahead,  with  the  look  with 
which  he  had  looked  across  Australia  in  his  gold- 
digging  days,  weary  until  he  got  back  to  the 
West  End,  not  talking  because  the  cab  made 
such  a  noise  crossing  the  bridge.  It  was  stupid 
of  her  to  peer  out  of  her  window  and  get  away 
to  her  own  world  like  that.  Nothing  that  we  can 
ever  say  to  each  other  can  possibly  interest  us, 


136  HONEYCOMB 

she  reflected.  Why  am  I  here  ?  Her  coins  re- 
assured her. 

"  Don't  think  about  pence,  dear  girl,"  he  said, 
in  a  voice  that  quavered  a  little  against  the  noise 
of  the  cab,  "  when  you're  with  old  Bob."  With- 
out looking  at  her  he  gently  closed  her  hand  over 
the  money. 

"  All  right,"  she  shouted,  "  we'll  see,  later  on  !  " 

The  cab  swept  round  into  a  street  and  the 
noise  abated. 

"  When  we've  dropped  those  famous  hats  and 
rung  the  bell  and  run  away  we'll  go  on  to  Bum- 
pus's  and  choose  our  book,"  he  said,  as  if  asserting 
themselves  and  their  errand  against  the  confusion 
through  which  they  were  driving. 

"  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures,"  thought 
Miriam,  glancing  with  loathing  at  the  pointed 
corner  of  the  collar  that  stuck  out  across  the 
three  firm  little  folds  under  the  clean-shaven 
chin.  .  .  .  How  funny  I  am.  I  suppose  I  shall 
get  through  the  afternoon  somehow.  We  shall 
go  to  the  bookshop  and  then  have  tea  and  then  it 
will  be  time  to  go  back. 

"  The  cabman  is  to  take  the  hats  into  the  shop 
and  leave  them.    Isn't  it  extraordinary  ?  " 

Bob  laughed  with  a  little  fling  of  his  head. 


HONEYCOMB  137 

"  The  vagaries  of  the  Fair,  dear  girl,"  he  said 
presently,  in  a  soft  blurred  tone. 

That's  one  of  his  phrases,  thought  Miriam — 
that's  old-fashioned  politeness ;  courtliness.  Be- 
hind it  he's  got  some  sort  of  mannish  thought 
..."  the  unaccountability  of  women '  .  .  . 
who  can  understand  a  woman — she  doesn't  even 
understand  herself — thought  he'd  given  up  trying 
to  make  out.  He's  gone  through  life  and  got  his 
own  impressions ;  all  utterly  wrong  .  .  .  talking 
about  them  with  an  air  of  wisdom  to  young  men 
like  Gerald  .  .  .  my  dear  boy,  a  woman  never 
knows  her  own  mind.  How  utterly  detestable 
mannishness  is ;  so  mighty  and  strong  and  com- 
forting when  you  have  been  mewed  up  with 
women  all  your  life,  and  then  suddenly,  in  a 
second,  far  away,  utterly  imbecile  and  aggravating 
with  a  superior  self-satisfied  smile  because  a 
woman  says  one  thing  one  minute  and  another 
the  next.  Men  ought  to  be  horsewhipped,  all  the 
grown  men,  all  who  have  ever  had  that  self- 
satisfied  smile,  all,  all,  horsewhipped  until  they 
apologise  on  their  knees. 


138  HONEYCOMB 

4 
They  sat  in  a  curious  oak  settee,  like  a  high- 
backed  church  pew.  The  waitress  had  cleared 
away  the  tea  things  and  brought  cigarettes,  large 
flat  Turkish  cigarettes.  Responding  to  her 
companion's  elaborate  apologetic  petition  for 
permission  to  smoke  it  did  not  occur  to  Miriam 
to  confess  that  she  herself  occasionally  smoked. 
She  forgot  the  fact  in  the  completeness  of  her 
contentment.  On  the  square  oak  table  in  front 
of  them  was  a  bowl  of  garden  anemones,  mauve 
and  scarlet  with  black  centres,  flaring  richly  in 
the  soft  light  coming  through  the  green-tinted 
diamond  panes  of  a  little  low  square  deep-silled 
window.  On  either  side  of  the  window  short 
red  curtains  were  drawn  back  and  hung  in  straight, 
close  folds  .  .  .  scarlet  geraniums  .  .  .  against 
the  creamy  plaster  wall.  Bowls  of  flowers  stood 
on  other  tables  placed  without  crowding  or  con- 
fusion about  the  room  and  there  was  another 
green  window  with  red  curtains  near  a  far-off 
corner.  There  were  no  other  customers  for  the 
greater  part  of  their  time  and  when  the  waitress 
was  not  in  the  room  it  was  still ;  a  softly  shaded 
stillness.     Bob's  low  blurred  voice  had  gone  on 


HONEYCOMB  139 

and  on  undisturbingly,  no  questions  about  her 
life  or  her  plans,  just  jokes,  about  the  tea-service 
and  everything  they  had  had,  making  her  laugh. 
Whenever  she  laughed,  he  laughed  delightedly. 
All  the  time  her  eyes  had  wandered  from  the 
brilliant  anemones  across  to  the  soft  green  window 
with  its  scarlet  curtains. 


CHAPTER   VIII 

i 

WHEN  May  came  life  lay  round  Miriam 
without  a  flaw.  She  seemed  to  have 
reached  the  summit  of  a  hill  up  which  she  had 
been  climbing  ever  since  she  came  to  Newlands. 
The  weeks  had  been  green  lanes  of  experience, 
fresh  and  scented  and  balmy  and  free  from  lurk- 
ing fears.  Now  the  landscape  lay  open  before 
her  eyes,  clear  from  horizon  to  horizon,  sunlit 
and  flawless,  past  and  future.  The  present, 
within  her  hands,  brought  her,  whenever  she 
paused  to  consider  it,  to  the  tips  of  her  toes,  as  if 
its  pressure  lifted  her.  She  would  push  it  off, 
smiling — turning  and  shutting  herself  away  from 
it,  with  laughter  and  closed  eyes,  she  found  herself 
deeper  in  the  airy  flood  and  drawing  breath  swam 
forward. 

The  old  troubles,  the  things  she  had  known 
from  the  beginning,  the  general  shadow  that  lay 
over   the  family  life   and   closed  punctually  in 

140 


HONEYCOMB  141 

whenever  the  sun  began  to  shine,  her  own  per- 
sonal thoughts,  the  impossibility  of  living  with 
people,  poverty,  disease,  death  in  a  dark  corner, 
had  moved  and  changed,  melted  and  flowed  away. 
The  family  shadow  had  shrunk  long  ago,  back 
in  the  winter  months  they  had  spent  in  Bennett's 
little  bachelor  villa,  to  a  small  black  cloud  of  dis- 
grace hanging  over  her  father.  At  the  time  of  its 
appearance,  when  the  extent  of  his  embarrass- 
ment was  exactly  known,  she  had  sunk  for  a  while 
under  the  conviction  that  the  rest  of  her  life  must 
be  spent  in  a  vain  attempt  to  pay  off  his  debts.  Her 
mind  revolved  round  the  problem  hopelessly.  .  .  . 
Even  if  she  went  on  the  stage  she  could  not  make 
enough  to  pay  off  one  of  his  creditors.  Most 
women  who  went  on  the  stage,  Gerald  had  said, 
made  practically  nothing,  and  the  successful  ones 
had  to  spend  enormous  sums  in  bribery  whilst 
they  were  making  their  way — even  the  orchestra 
expected  to  be  flattered  and  bribed.  She  would 
have  to  go  on  being  a  resident  governess,  keeping 
ten  pounds  a  year  for  dress  and  paying  over  the 
rest  of  her  salary.  Her  bitter  rebellion  against 
this  prospect  was  reinforced  by  the  creditors' 
refusal  to  make  her  father  a  bankrupt.  The 
refusal  brought  her  a  picture  of  the  creditors, 


142  HONEYCOMB 

men  "  on  the  Stock  Exchange,"  sitting  in  a  circle, 
in  frock-coats,  talking  over  her  father's  affairs. 
She  winced,  her  blood  came  scorching  against 
her  skin.  She  confronted  them,  "  Stop  !  "  she 
shouted,  "  stop  talking — you  smug  ugly  men  ! 
You  shall  be  paid.  Stop  !  Go  away.  .  .  ."  But 
Gerald  had  said,  "  They  like  the  old  boy  ...  it 
won't  hurt  them  .  .  .  they're  all  made  of  money." 
They  liked  him.  They  would  be  kind.  What 
right  had  they  to  be  "  kind  "  ?  They  would  be 
kind  to  her  too.  They  would  smile  at  her  plan 
of  restitution  and  put  it  on  one  side.  And  yet 
secretly  she  knew  that  each  one  of  them  would 
like  to  be  paid  and  was  vexed  and  angry  at  losing 
money  just  as  she  was  angry  at  having  to  sacrifice 
her  life  to  them.  She  would  not  sacrifice  her 
life,  but  if  ever  she  found  herself  wealthy  she 
would  find  out  their  names  and  pay  them  secretly. 
Probably  that  would  be  never. 

Disgrace  closed  round  her,  stifling.  "  It's  us — 
we're  doomed,"  she  thought,  feeling  the  stigma 
of  her  family  in  her  flesh.  "  If  I  go  on  after  this, 
holding  up  my  head,  I  shall  be  a  liar  and  a  cheat. 
It  will  show  in  my  face  and  in  my  walk,  always.'* 
She  bowed  her  head.     "  I  want  to  live,"  mur- 


HONEYCOMB  143 

mured  something.  "  I  want  to  live,  even  if  I 
slink  through  life.  I  will.  I  don't  care  inside.  I 
shall  always  have  myself  to  be  with." 

Something  that  was  not  touched,  that  sang 
far  away  down  inside  the  gloom,  that  cared 
nothing  for  the  creditors  and  could  get  away 
down  and  down  into  the  twilight  far  away  from 
the  everlasting  accusations  of  humanity. .  .  .  The 
disgrace  sat  only  in  the  muscles  of  her  face,  in  her 
muscles,  the  stuff  of  her  that  had  defied  and 
fought  and  been  laughed  at  and  beaten.  It 
would  not  get  deeper.  Deeper  down  was  some- 
thing cooHand^fresh — endless — an  endless  garden. 
In  happiness  it  came  up  and  made  everything  in 
the  world  into  a  garden.  Sorrow  blotted  it  over, 
but  it  was  always  there,  waiting  and  looking  on. 
It  had  looked  on  in  Germany  and  had  loved  the 
music  and  the  words  and  the  happiness  of  the 
German  girls  and  at  Banbury  Park,  giving  her  no 
peace  until  she  got  away. 

And  now  it  had  come  to  the  surface  and  was 
with  her  all  the  time.  Away  in  the  distance 
filling  in  the  horizon  was  the  home  life.  Beyond 
the  horizon,  gone  away  for  ever  into  some  outer 


i44  HONEYCOMB 

darkness  were  her  old  ideas  of  trouble,  disease 
and  death.  Once  they  had  been  always  quite  near 
at  hand,  always  ready  to  strike,  laying  cold  hands 
on  everything.  They  would  return,  but  they 
would  be  changed.  No  need  to  fear  them  any 
more.  She  had  seen  them  change.  And  when 
at  last  they  came  back,  when  there  was  nothing 
else  left  in  front  of  her  they  would  still  be 
changing.  "  Get  along,  old  ghosts,"  she  said, 
and  they  seemed  friendly  and  smiling.  Her 
father  and  mother,  whose  failure  and  death 
she  had  foreseen  as  a  child  with  sudden 
bitter  tears,  were  going  on  now  step  by  step 
towards  these  ghostly  things  in  the  small  bright 
lamplit  villa  in  Gunnersbury.  She  had  watched 
them  there  during  the  winter  months  before  she 
came  to  Newlands.  They  had  some  secret 
together  and  did  not  feel  the  darkness.  Their 
eyes  were  careless  and  bright.  Startled,  she  had 
heard  them  laugh  together  as  they  talked  in  their 
room.  Often  their  eyes  were  preoccupied,  as  if 
they  were  looking  at  a  picture.  She  had  laughed 
aloud  at  the  thought  whenever  there  had  been 
any  excuse,  and  they  had  always  looked  at  her 
when  she  laughed  her  loud  laugh.  Had  they 
understood  ?     Did  they  know  that  it  was  them- 


HONEYCOMB  145 

selves  laughing  in  her  ?  Families  ought  to  laugh 
together  whenever  there  was  any  excuse.  She 
felt  that  her  own  grown-up  laughter  was  the  end 
of  all  the  dreadful  years.  And  three  weeks  ahead 
were  the  two  weddings.  The  letters  from  home 
gleamed  with  descriptions  of  the  increasing  store 
of  presents  and  new-made  clothing.  Miriam  felt 
that  they  were  her  own  ;  she  would  see  them  all 
at  the  last  best  moment  when  they  were  complete. 
She  would  have  all  that  and  all  her  pride  in  the 
outgoing  lives  of  Sarah  and  Harriett  that  were 
like  two  sunlit  streams.  And  meanwhile  here 
within  her  hands  was  Newlands.  Three  weeks  of 
days  and  nights  of  untroubled  beauty.  In- 
terminable. 

2 

The  roses  were  in  bud.  Every  day  she  managed 
to  visit  them  at  least  once,  running  out  alone 
into  the  garden  at  twilight  and  coming  back  rich 
with  the  sense  of  the  twilit  green  garden  and  the 
increasing  stripes  of  colour  between  the  tight 
shining  green  sheaths. 

3 

There  had  been  no  more  talk  of  painting 
lessons.    The  idea  had  died  in  Mrs.  Corrie's  mind 


146  HONEYCOMB 

the  day  after  it  had  been  born  and  a  strange 
interest,  something  dreadful  that  was  happening 
in  London  had  taken  its  place.  It  seemed  to 
absorb  her  completely  and  to  spread  a  strange 
curious  excitement  throughout  the  house.  She 
sent  a  servant  every  afternoon  up  to  the  station 
for  an  evening  newspaper.  The  pink  papers  dis- 
appeared, but  she  was  perpetually  making  allu- 
sions to  their  strange  secret  in  a  way  that  told 
Miriam  she  wanted  to  impart  it  and  that  irritated 
without  really  arousing  her  interest.  She  felt 
that  anything  that  was  being  fussed  over  in  pink 
evening  papers  was  probably  really  nothing  at  all. 
She  could  not  believe  that  anything  that  had 
such  a  strange  effect  on  Mrs.  Corrie  could  really 
interest  her.  But  she  longed  to  know  exactly 
what  the  mysterious  thing  was.  If  it  was  simply 
a  divorce  case  Mrs.  Corrie  would  have  told  her 
about  it,  dropping  out  the  whole  story  abstract- 
edly in  one  of  her  little  shocked  sentences  and 
immediately  going  on  to  speak  of  something  else. 
She  did  not  want  to  hear  anything  more  about 
divorce  ;  all  her  interested  curiosity  in  divorced 
people  had  been  dispersed  by  her  contact  with 
the  Kronens.  They  had  both  been  divorced 
and  their  lives  were  broken  and  muddly  and  they 


HONEYCOMB  147 

were  not  sure  of  themselves.  Mrs.  Kronen  was 
strong  and  alone.  But  she  was  alone  and  would 
always  be.  If  it  were  a  murder  everybody  would 
talk  about  it  openly.  It  must  be  something 
worse  than  a  murder  or  a  divorce.  She  felt  she 
must  know,  must  make  Mrs.  Corrie  tell  her  and 
knew  at  the  same  time  that  she  did  not  want  to 
be  distracted  from  the  pure  solid  glory  of  the 
weeks  by  sharing  a  horrible  secret.  The  thing 
kept  Mrs.  Corrie  occupied  and  interested  and 
left  her  free  to  live  undisturbed.  It  was  a  barrier 
between  them.  And  yet  .  .  .  something  that  a 
human  being  had  done  that  was  worse  than  a 
murder  or  a  divorce. 

"  Is  it  a  divorce  ?  "  she  said  suddenly  and  in- 
sincerely one  afternoon  coming  upon  Mrs.  Corrie 
scanning  the  newly  arrived  newspaper  in  the 
garden. 

"  Lordy  no,"  laughed  Mrs.  Corrie  self-con- 
sciously, scrumpling  the  paper  under  her  arm. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  said  Miriam,  shaking  and 
flushing.  "  Don't  tell  me,  don't  tell  me,"  cried 
her  mind,  "  don't  mention  it,  you  don't  know 
yourself  what  it  is.    Nobody  knows  what  anything 


is." 


"  I  couldn't  tell  you  !  "  cried  Mrs.  Corrie. 


148  HONEYCOMB 

"  Why  not?"  laughed  Miriam. 

"  It's  too  awful,"  giggled  Mrs.  Corrie. 
Oh,  you  must  tell  me  now  you've  begun." 
It's  the  most  awful  thing  there  is.    It's  like 
the  Bible,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie,  and  fled  into  the 
house. 

4 

Little  cities  burning  and  flaring  in  a  great 
plain  until  everything  was  consumed.  Every- 
thing beginning  again — clean.  Would  London 
be  visited  by  destruction  ?  Humanity  was  as 
bad  now  as  in  Bible  days.  It  made  one  feel  cold 
and  sick.  In  the  midst  of  the  beauty  and  happi- 
ness of  England — awful  things,  the  worst  things 
there  were.  What  awful  faces  those  people  must 
have.    It  would  be  dreadful  to  see  them. 

5 

At  the  week-end  the  house  seemed  full  of  little 
groups  of  conspirators,  talking  in  corners,  full  of 
secret  glee  .  .  .  someone  describing  a  room, 
drawn  curtains  and  candlelight  at  midday  .  .  . 
wonderful  .  .  .  and  laughing.  Why  did  they 
laugh  ?  A  candle-lit  room  in  the  midst  of  bright 
day  .  .  .  wonderful,  like  a  shrine. 

The  low-toned  talk  went  on,  in  Mr.  Corrie's 


HONEYCOMB  149 

little  study  behind  the  half-closed  door,  in 
corners  of  the  hall.  Names  were  mentioned — 
the  name  of  the  man  who  wrote  the  plays,  Mrs. 
Kronen's  "  genius."  Miriam  could  only  recall 
when  she  was  alone  that  it  was  a  woodland  spring- 
time name.  It  comforted  her  to  think  that  this 
name  was  concerned  in  the  horrible  mystery. 
Her  sympathies  veered  vaguely  out  towards  the 
patch  of  disgrace  in  London  and  her  interest 

died  down. 

6 

The  general  preoccupation  and  excitement 
seemed  to  destroy  her  link  with  the  household. 
As  soon  as  the  children's  tea  was  over  she  felt 
herself  free.  A  strange  tall  woman  came  to  stay 
in  the  house,  trailing  about  in  long  jewelled 
dresses  with  a  slight  limp  ;  Miss  Tower,  Mrs. 
Corrie  called  her  Jin.  But  the  name  did  not 
belong  to  her.  Miriam  could  not  think  of  any 
name  that  would  belong  to  her  .  .  .  talking  to 
Mrs.  Corrie  at  lunch  with  amused  eyes  and 
expressionless,  small  fine  features  of  some  illness 
that  was  going  to  kill  her  in  eight  or  ten  years,  of 
her  friends,  talking  about  her  men  friends  as  if 
they  were  boys  to  be  cried  over.  "  Why  don't 
you  marry  him  ?  "  Mrs.  Corrie  would  say  of  one 


150  HONEYCOMB 

or  another.  How  happy  the  man  would  be, 
thought  Miriam,  gazing  into  the  strange  eyes 
and  daring  her  to  marry  anyone  and  alter  the 
eyes.  Miss  Tower  spoke  to  her  now  and  again 
as  if  she  had  known  her  all  her  life.  One  day 
after  lunch  she  suddenly  said,  "  You  ought  to 
smile  more  often — you've  got  pretty  teeth  ;  but 
you  forget  about  them.  Don't  forget  about 
them  "  ;  and  one  evening  she  came  into  her  room 
just  as  she  was  beginning  to  undress  and  stood  by 
the  fire  and  said,  "  Your  evening  dresses  are  all 
wrong.  You  should  have  them  cut  higher,  about 
the  collar-bone — or  much  lower — don't  forget. 
Don't  forget,  you  could  be  charming." 

Mrs.  Corrie  came  in  herself  the  next  evening 
and  gave  Miriam  a  full-length  cabinet  photograph 
of  herself,  suddenly.  Afterwards  she  heard  her 
saying  to  Kate  on  the  landing,  "  Let  the  poor 
thing  rest  when  she  can,"  and  they  both  went 
into  Kate's  room. 

7 

Every  day  as  soon  as  the  children's  tea  was  over 
she  fled  to  her  room.  The  memory  of  Mrs. 
Corrie's  little  sketch-book  had  haunted  her  for 
days.  She  had  bought  a  block  and  brushes,  a 
small  box  of  paints  and  a  book  on  painting  in 


HONEYCOMB  151 

water  colours.  For  days  she  painted,  secure  in 
the  feeling  of  Mrs.  Corrie  and  Kate  occupied 
with  each  other.  She  filled  sheet  after  sheet  with 
swift  efforts  to  recall  Brighton  skies — sunset, 
the  red  mass  of  the  sun,  the  profile  of  the 
cliffs,  the  sky  clear  or  full  of  heavy  cloud,  the 
darkness  of  the  afternoon  sea  streaked  by  a 
path  of  gold,  bird-specks,  above  the  cliffs  above 
the  sea.  The  painting  was  thick  and  confused, 
the  objects  blurred  and  ran  into  each  other,  the 
image  of  each  recalled  object  came  close  before 
her  eyes,  shaking  her  with  its  sharp  reality,  her 
heart  and  hand  shook  as  she  contemplated  it, 
and  her  body  thrilled  as  she  swept  her  brushes 
about.  She  found  herself  breathing  heavily  and 
deeply,  sure  each  time  of  registering  what  she 
saw,  sweeping  rapidly  on  until  the  filled  paper 
confronted  her,  a  confused  mass  of  shapeless 
images,  leaving  her  angry  and  cold.  Each  day 
what  she  had  done  the  day  before  thrilled  her 
afresh  and  drove  her  on,  and  the  time  she  spent 
in  contemplation  and  hope  became  the  heart  of 
the  days  as  April  wore  on. 


152  HONEYCOMB 

8 

On  the  last  day  of  Jin  Tower's  visit,  Miriam 
came  in  from  the  garden  upon  Mrs.  Corrie 
sitting  in  the  hall  with  her  guest.  Jin  was  going 
and  was  sorry  that  she  was  going.  But  Miriam 
saw  that  her  gladness  was  as  great  as  her  sorrow. 
It  always  would  be.  Whatever  happened  to  her. 
Mrs.  Corrie  was  sitting  at  her  side  bent  from  the 
waist  with  her  arms  stretched  out  and  hands 
clasped  beyond  her  knees.  Miriam  was  amazed 
to  see  how  much  Mrs.  Corrie  had  been  talking, 
and  that  she  was  treating  Jin's  departure  as  if  it 
were  a  small  crisis.  There  was  a  touch  of  soft 
heat  and  fussiness  in  the  air.  Mrs.  Corrie's 
features  were  discomposed.  They  both  glanced 
at  her  as  she  came  across  the  hall  and  she  smiled, 
awkwardly  and  half  paused.  Her  mind  was 
turned  towards  her  vision  of  a  great  cliff  in  profile 
against  a  still  sky  with  a  deep  sea  brimming  to  its 
feet  in  a  placid  afterglow  ;  the  garden  with  its 
lawn  and  trees,  its  bushiness  and  its  buttons  of 
bright  rosebuds  had  seemed  small  and  troubled 
and  talkative  in  comparison.  In  her  slight  pause 
she  offered  them  her  vision,  but  knew  as  she  went 
on  upstairs  that  her  attitude  had  said,  "  I  am  the 


HONEYCOMB  153 

paid  governess.  You  must  not  talk  to  me  as  you 
would  to  each  other ;  I  am  an  inferior  and  can 
never  be  an  intimate."  She  was  glad  that  Jin 
had  left  off  coming  to  her  room.  She  did  not 
want  intimacy  with  anyone  if  it  meant  that 
strained  fussiness  in  the  hall.  Meeting  Mrs. 
Corrie  later  on  the  landing  she  asked  with  a 
sudden  sense  of  inspiration  whether  she  might 
have  her  meal  in  her  room,  adding  in  an  insincere 
effort  at  explanation  that  she  wanted  to  do  some 
reading  up  for  the  children.  Mrs.  Corrie  agreed 
with  an  alacrity  that  gave  her  a  vision  of  possible 
freedom  ahead  and  a  shock  of  apprehension. 
Perhaps  she  had  not  succeeded  even  so  far  as  she 
thought  in  living  the  Newlands  social  life.  She 
spent  the  evening  writing  to  Eve,  asking  her  if 
she  remembered  sea  scenes  at  Weymouth  and 
Brighton,  pushing  on  and  on  weighed  down  by  a 
sense  of  the  urgency  of  finding  out  whether  to 
Eve  the  registration  and  the  recalling  of  her 
impressions  was  a  thing  that  she  must  either  do 
or  lose  hold  of  some  essential  thing  .  .  .  she  felt 
that  Eve  would  somehow  admire  her  own  stormy 
emphasis  but  would  not  really  understand  how 
much  it  meant  to  her.  She  remembered  Eve's 
comparison  of  the  country  round  the   Greens' 


154  HONEYCOMB 

house  to  Leader  landscapes — pictures,  and  how 
delightful  it  had  seemed  to  her  that  she  had  such 
things  all  round  her  to  look  at.  But  her  thoughts 
of  the  great  brow  and  downward  sweep  of  cliff 
and  the  sea  coming  up  to  it  was  not  a  picture,  it 
was  a  thing ;  her  cheeks  flared  as  she  searched 
for  a  word — it  was  an  experience,  perhaps  the 
most  important  thing  in  life — far  in  away  from 
any  "  glad  mask,"  a  thing  belonging  to  that 
strange  inner  life  and  independent  of  everybody. 
Perhaps  it  was  a  betrayal,  a  sort  of  fat  noisy 
gossiping  to  speak  of  it  even  to  Eve.  "  You'll 
think  I'm  mad"  she  concluded,  "  but  I'm  not." 
When  the  letter  was  finished  the  Newlands  life 
seemed  very  remote.  She  was  alone  in  a  strange, 
luxurious  room  that  did  not  belong  to  her,  lit  by 
a  hard  electric  light  that  had  been  put  there  by 
some  hardworking  mechanic  to  whom  the  house 
was  just  a  house  with  electric  fittings.  She  felt 
a  touch  of  the  half-numb  half-feverish  stupor 
that  had  been  her  daily  mood  at  Banbury  Park. 
She  would  go  on  teaching  the  Corrie  children, 
but  her  evenings  in  future  would  be  divided 
between  unsuccessful  efforts  to  put  down  her 
flaming  or  peaceful  sunset  scenes  and  to  explain 
their  importance  to  Eve. 


CHAPTER    IX 
i 

BUT  the  next  evening  when  Mr.  Corrie  came 
down  for  the  week-end  with  a  party  of 
guests,  Mrs.  Corrie  appeared  with  swift  sudden- 
ness in  Miriam's  room  and  glanced  at  her  morn- 
ing dress. 

"  I  say,  missy,  you'll  have  to  hurry  up." 
"  Oh,  I  didn't  dress  .  .  .  the  house  is  full  of 
strangers." 

"  No,  it  isn't ;    there's  Melie  and  Tom  .  .  . 
Tommy  and  Melie." 

"  Yes,  but  I  know  there  are  crowds." 
She  did  not  want  to  meet  the  Cravens  again, 
and  the  strangers  would  turn  out  to  be  some  sort 
of  people  saying  certain  sorts  of  things  over  and 
over  again,  and  if  she  went  down  she  would  not 
be  able  to  get  away  as  soon  as  she  knew  all  about 
them.  She  would  be  fixed ;  obliged  to  listen. 
When  anyone  spoke  to  her,  grimacing  as  the 
patronised  governess  or  saying  what  she  thought 
and  being  hated  for  it. 

155 


156  HONEYCOMB 

"  Crowds,"  she  repeated,  as  Mrs.  Corrie  placed 
a  large  lump  in  the  centre  of  the  blaze. 

They  had  her  here,  in  this  beautiful  room  and 
looked  after  her  comfort  as  if  she  were  a 
guest. 

"  Nonsensy-nonsense.  You  must  come  down 
and  see  the  fun."  Miriam  glanced  at  her  empty 
table.  In  the  drawer  hidden  underneath  the 
table-cover  were  her  block  and  paints.  Presently 
she  could,  if  she  held  firm,  be  alone,  in  a  grey 
space  inside  this  alien  room,  cold  and  lonely  and 
with  the  beginning  of  something  .  .  .  dark 
painful  beginning  of  something  that  could  not 
come  if  people  were  there.  .  .  .  Downstairs, 
warmth  and  revelry. 

"  You  must  come  down  and  see  the  fun,"  said 
Mrs.  Corrie,  getting  up  from  the  fire  and  trailing 
across  the  room  with  bent  head.  "  A  nun — a 
nun  in  amber  satin,"  thought  Miriam,  surveying 
her  back. 

"  Want  you  to  come  down,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie 
plaintively  from  the  door.  Cold  air  came  in 
from  the  landing ;  the  warmth  of  the  room 
stirred  to  a  strange  vitality,  the  light  glowed 
clearer  within  its  ruby  globe.  The  silvery 
clatter  of  entree  dishes  came  up  from  the  hall. 


HONEYCOMB  157 

"  All  right,"  said  Miriam,  turning  exultantly 
to  the  chest  of  drawers. 

"  A  victory  over  myself  or  some  sort  of  treach- 
ery ? '  .  .  .  The  long  drawer  which  held  her 
evening  things  seemed  full  of  wonders.  She 
dragged  out  a  little  home-made  smocked  blouse 
of  pale  blue  nun's  veiling  that  had  seemed  too 
dowdy  for  Newlands  and  put  it  on  over  her 
morning  skirt.  It  shone  upon  her.  Rapidly 
washing  her  hands,  away  from  the  glamour  of 
the  looking-glass,  she  mentally  took  stock  of  her 
hair,  untouched  since  the  morning,  the  amateur 
blouse,  its  crude  clear  blue  hard  against  the 
harsh  black  skirt.  Back  again  at  the  dressing- 
table  as  she  dried  her  hands  she  found  the 
miracle  renewed.  The  figure  that  confronted 
her  in  the  mirror  was  wrapped  in  some  strange 
harmonising  radiance.  She  looked  at  it  for  a 
moment  as  she  would  have  looked  at  an  unknown 
picture,  in  tranquil  disinterested  contemplation. 
The  sound  of  the  gong  came  softly  into  the  room, 
bringing  her  no  apprehensive  contraction  of  nerves. 
She  wove  its  lingering  note  into  the  imagined 
tinkling  of  an  old  melody  from  a  wooden  musical 
box.  Opening  the  door  before  turning  out  her 
gas  she  found  a  small  bunch  of  hothouse  lilies  of 


158  HONEYCOMB 

the  valley  lying  on  the  writing-table.  .  .  .  Mrs. 
Corrie — "  you  must  come." 

2 

Tucking  them  into  her  belt  she  went  slowly 
downstairs,  confused  by  a  picture  coming  between 
her  and  her  surroundings  like  a  filmy  lantern 
slide,  of  Portland  Bill  lying  on  a  smooth  sea  in  a 
clear  afterglow.  .  .  . 

"  Quite  a  madonna,"  said  Mrs.  Staple-Craven 
querulously.  She  sat  low  in  her  chair,  her  round 
gold  head  on  its  short  stalk  standing  firmly  up 
from  billowy  frills  of  green  silk  .  .  .  "  a  fat 
water-lily,"  mused  Miriam,  and  went  wandering 
through  the  great  steamy  glass-houses  at  Kew, 
while  the  names  that  had  been  murmured 
during  the  introductions  echoed  irrelevantly  in 
her  brain. 

"  She  must  wear  her  host's  colours  sometimes," 
said  Mr.  Corrie  quickly  and  gently. 

Miriam  glanced  her  surprise  and  smiled  shyly 
in  response  to  his  shy  smile.  It  was  as  if  the  faint 
radiance  that  she  felt  all  round  her  had  been  out- 
lined by  a  flashing  blade.  Mrs.  Craven  might  go 
on  resenting  it ;  she  could  not  touch  it  again.  It 
steadied  and  concentrated ;  flowing  from  some  in- 


HONEYCOMB  159 

exhaustible  inner  centre,  it  did  not  get  beyond 
the  circle  outlined  by  the  flashing  blade,  but 
flowed  back  on  her  and  out  again  and  back  until 
it  seemed  as  if  it  must  lift  her  to  her  feet.  Her 
eyes  caught  the  clear  brow  and  smooth  innocently 
sleeked  dark  hair  of  a  man  at  the  other  end  of  the 
table — under  the  fine  level  brows  was  a  loudly 
talking,  busily  eating  face— all  the  noise  of  the 
world,  and  the  brooding  grieving  unconscious 
brow  above  it.  Everyone  was  talking.  She 
glanced.  The  women  showed  no  foreheads ; 
but  their  faces  were  not  noisy  ;  they  were  like 
the  brows  of  the  men,  except  Mrs.  Craven's. 
Her  silent  face  was  mouthing  and  complaining 
aloud  all  the  time. 

3 

"  Old  Felix  has  secured  himself  the  best 
partner,"  Miriam  heard  someone  mutter  as  she 
made  her  fluke,  a  resounding  little  cannon  and 
pocket  in  one  stroke.  Wandering  after  her  ball 
she  fought  against  the  suggesting  voice.  It  had 
come  from  one  of  the  men  moving  about  in  the 
gloom  surrounding  the  radiance  cast  by  the 
green-shaded  lamps  upon  the  long  green  table. 
Faces  moving  in  the  upper  darkness  were  in- 


160  HONEYCOMB 

distinguishable.  The  white  patch  of  Mrs.  Cor- 
rie's  face  gleamed  from  the  settee  as  she  sat  bent 
forward  with  her  hands  clasped  in  front  of  her 
knees.  Beyond  her,  sitting  back  under  the  shadow 
of  the  mantelpiece  and  the  marking  board  was 
Mrs.  Craven,  a  faint  mass  of  soft  green  and  mealy 
white.  All  the  other  forms  were  standing  or 
moving  in  the  gloom  ;  standing  watchful  and 
silent,  the  gleaming  stems  of  their  cues  held  in 
rest,  shifting  and  moving  and  strolling  with  un- 
colliding  ordered  movements  and  little  murmurs 
of  commentary  after  the  little  drama — the 
sudden  snap  of  the  stroke  breaking  the  stillness, 
the  faint  thundering  roll  of  the  single  ball,  the 
click  of  the  concussion,  the  gentle  angular  ex- 
plosion of  pieces  into  a  new  relation  and  the 
breaking  of  the  varying  triangle  as  a  ball  rolled 
to  its  hidden  destination  held  by  all  the  eyes  in 
the  room  until  its  rumbling  pilgrimage  ended  out 
of  sight  in  a  soft  thud.  It  was  pure  joy  to  Miriam 
to  wander  round  the  table  after  her  ball,  sheltered 
in  the  gloom,  through  an  endless  "  grand  chain  ' 
of  undifferentiated  figures  that  passed  and  re- 
passed without  awkwardness  or  the  need  for 
forced  exchange  ;  held  together  and  separated 
by  the  ceremony  of  the  game.     Comments  came 


HONEYCOMB  161 

after  each  stroke,  words  and  sentences  sped  and 
smoothed  and  polished  by  the  gloom  like  the 
easy  talking  of  friends  in  a  deep  twilight ;  but 
between  each  stroke  were  vast  intervals  of  un- 
troubled silent  intercourse.  The  competition  of 
the  men,  the  sense  of  the  desire  to  win,  that  rose 
and  strained  in  the  room  could  not  spoil  this 
communion.  After  a  stroke,  pondering  the  balls 
while  the  room  and  the  radiance  and  the  darkness 
moved  and  flowed  and  the  dim  figures  settled  to 
a  fresh  miracle  of  grouping,  it  was  joy  to  lean 
along  the  board  to  her  ball,  keeping  punctual 
appointment  with  her  partner  whose  jaunty  little 
figure  would  appear  in  supporting  opposition 
under  the  bright  light,  drawing  at  his  cigarette 
with  a  puckering  half-smile,  awaiting  her  sugges- 
tion and  ready  with  counsel.  Doing  her  best  to 
measure  angles  and  regulate  the  force  of  her  blow 
she  struck  careless  little  lifting  strokes  that  made 
her  feel  as  if  she  danced,  and  managed  three  more 
cannons  and  a  pocket  before  her  little  break  came 
to  an  end. 

4 
"  It  must  be  jolly  to  smoke  in  the  in-between 
times,"   said  Miriam,    standing   about   at  a  loss 
during  a  long  break  by  one  of  her  opponents. 

M 


i6z  HONEYCOMB 

"  Yes,  you  ought  to  learn  to  smoke,"  responded 
Mr.  Corrie  judicially.  The  quiet  smile — the 
serene  offer  of  companionship,  the  whole  room 
troubled  with  the  sense  of  the  two  parties,  the 
men  with  whom  she  was  linked  in  the  joyous 
forward  going  strife  of  the  game  and  the  women 
on  the  sofa,  suddenly  grown  monstrous  in  their 
opposition  of  clothes  and  kindliness  and  the  fuss 
of  distracting  personal  insincerities  of  voice  and 
speech  attempting  to  judge  and  condemn  the 
roomful  of  quiet  players,  shouting  aloud  to  her 
that  she  was  a  fool  to  be  drawn  in  to  talking 
to  men  seriously  on  their  own  level,  a  fool  to 
parade  about  as  if  she  really  enjoyed  their 
silly  game.  "  I  hate  women  and  they've  got 
to  know  it,"  she  retorted  with  all  her  strength, 
hitting  blindly  out  towards  the  sofa,  feeling 
all  the  contrivances  of  toilet  and  coiffure 
fall  in  meaningless  horrible  detail  under  her 
blows. 

"  I  do  smoke,"  she  said,  leaving  her  partner's 
side  and  going  boldly  to  the  sofa  corner.  "  Rag- 
bags,  bundles  of  pretence,"  she  thought,  as  she 
confronted  the  women.  They  glanced  up  with 
cunning  eyes.  They  looked  small  and  cringing. 
She  rushed  on,  sweeping  them  aside.  .  .  .  Who 


HONEYCOMB  163 

had  made  them  so  small  and  cheated  and  for  all 
their  smiles  so  angry  ?  What  was  it  they  wanted  ? 
What  was  it  women  wanted  that  always  made 
them  so  angry  ? 

"  Would  you  mind  if  I  smoked  ?  "  she  asked 
in  a  clear  gay  tone,  cutting  herself  from  Mrs. 
Corrie  with  a  wrench  as  she  faced  her  glittering 
frightened  eyes. 

"  Of  course  not,  my  dear  lady — I  don't  mind, 
if  you  don't,"  she  said,  tweaking  affectionately  at 
Miriam's  skirt.  "  Ain't  she  a  gay  dog,  Melie, 
ain't  she  a  gay  dog  !  " 

5 

"  It's  a  pleasure  to  see  you  smoke,"  murmured 
Mr.  Corrie  fervently,  "  you're  the  first  woman 
I've  seen  smoke  con  amoreP 

Contemplating  the  little  screwed-up  apprecia- 
tive smile  on  the  features  of  her  partner,  bunched 
to  the  lighting  of  his  own  cigarette,  Miriam  dis- 
charged a  double  stream  of  smoke  violently 
through  her  nostrils — breaking  out  at  last  a  public 
defiance  of  the  freemasonry  of  women.  "  I 
suppose  I'm  a  new  woman — I've  said  I  am  now, 
anyhow,"  she  reflected,  wondering  in  the  back- 
ground  of   her   determination   how   she   would 


164  HONEYCOMB 

reconcile  the  role  with  her  work  as  a  children's 
governess.  "  I'm  not  in  their  crowd,  anyhow ; 
I  despise  their  silly  secret,"  she  pursued,  feeling 
out  ahead  towards  some  lonely  solution  of  her 
difficulty  that  seemed  to  come  shapelessly  to- 
wards her,  but  surely — the  happy  weariness  of 
conquest  gave  her  a  sense  of  some  unknown 
strength  in  her. 

For  the  rest  of  the  evening  the  group  in  the 
sofa-corner  presented  her  a  frontage  of  fawning 

and  flattery. 

6 

Coming  down  with  the  children  to  lunch  the 
next  day,  Miriam  found  the  room  dark  and  chill 
in  the  bright  midday.  It  was  as  if  it  were  empty. 
But  if  it  had  been  empty  it  would  have  been 
beautiful  in  the  still  light  and  tranquil.  There 
was  a  dark  cruel  tide  in  the  room,  she  sought  in 
vain  for  a  foothold.  A  loud  busy  voice  was  talking 
from  Mr.  Corrie's  place  at  the  head  of  the  table. 
Mr.  Staple-Craven,  busy  with  cold  words  to 
hide  the  truth.  He  paused  as  the  nursery  trio 
came  in  and  settled  at  the  table  and  then  shouted 
softly  and  suddenly  at  Mrs.  Corrie,  "  What's 
Corrie  having  ?  " 

"  Biscuits,"  chirped  Mrs.  Corrie  eagerly,  "  bis- 


HONEYCOMB  165 

cuits  and  sally  in  the  study."  She  sat  forward, 
gathering  herself  to  disperse  the  gloom.  But 
Mrs.  Craven's  deep  voice  drowned  her  un- 
spoken gaieties  .  .  .  ah — he's  not  gone  away, 
thought  Miriam  rapidly,  he's  in  the  house.  .  .  . 

"  Best  thing  for  biliousness,"  gonged  Mrs. 
Craven,  and  Mr.  Craven  busily  resumed. 

"  It's  only  the  fisherman  who  knows  anything, 
anything  whatever  about  the  silver  stream. 
Necessarily.  Necessarily.  It  is  the — the  concen- 
tration, the — the  absorption  of  the  passion  that 
enables  him  to  see.  Er,  the  fisherman,  the  poet- 
tantamount  ;  exchangeable  terms.  Fishing  is, 
indeed  one  might  say " 

The  men  of  the  party  were  devouring  their 
food  with  the  air  of  people  just  about  to  separate 
to  fulfil  urgent  engagements.  They  bent  and 
gobbled  busily  and  cast  smouldering  glances 
about  the  table,  as  if  with  their  eyes  they  would 
suggest  important  mysteries  brooding  above 
their  animated  muzzles. 

Miriam's  stricken  eyes  sought  their  foreheads 
for  relief.  Smooth  brows  and  neatly  brushed 
hair  above  ;  but  the  smooth  motionless  brows 
were  ramparts  of  hate  ;  pure  murderous  hate. 
That's  men,  she  said,  with  a  sudden  flash  of  cer- 


1 66  HONEYCOMB 

tainty,  that's  men  as  they  are,  when  they  are 
opposed,  when  they  are  real.  All  the  rest  is 
pretence.  Her  thoughts  flashed  forward  to  a 
final  clear  issue  of  opposition,  with  a  husband. 
Just  a  cold  blank  hating  forehead  and  neatly 
brushed  hair  above  it.  If  a  man  doesn't  under- 
stand or  doesn't  agree  he's  just  a  blank  bony 
conceitedly  thinking,  absolutely  condemning 
forehead,  a  face  below,  going  on  eating — and 
going  off  somewhere.  Men  are  all  hard  angry 
bones ;  always  thinking  something,  only  one 
thing  at  a  time  and  unless  that  is  agreed  to,  they 
murder.  My  husband  shan't  kill  me.  .  .  .  I'll 
shatter  his  conceited  brow — make  him  see  .  .  . 
two  sides  to  every  question  ...  a  million 
sides  ...  no  questions,  only  sides  .  .  .  always 
changing.  Men  argue,  think  they  prove  things  ; 
their  foreheads  recover — cool  and  calm.  Damn 
them  all — all  men. 

7 

"  Fee  ought  to  be  out  here,"  said  Mrs.  Corrie, 
moving  her  basket  chair  to  face  away  from  the 
sun. 

The  garden  blazed  in  the  fresh  warm  air.  But 
there  was  no  happiness  in  it.  Everything  was 
lost  and  astray.     The  house-party  had  dispersed 


HONEYCOMB  167 

and  disappeared.  Mrs.  Corrie  sat  and  strolled 
about  the  garden,  joyless,  as  if  weighed  down  by 
some  immovable  oppression.  If  Mr.  Corrie 
were  to  come  out  and  sit  there  too  it  would  be 
worse.  It  was  curious  to  think  that  the  garden 
was  his  at  all.  He  would  come  feebly  out,  looking 
ill  and  they  would  all  sit,  uneasy  and  afraid. 
But  Mrs.  Corrie  wanted  him  to  come  out,  knew 
he  ought  to  be  there.  It  was  she  who  had  thought 
of  it.  It  was  intolerable  to  think  of  his  coming. 
Yet  he  had  been  "crazy  mad"  about  her  for 
five  years.  Five  years  and  then  this.  Whose 
fault  was  it  ?  His  or  hers  ?  Or  was  marriage 
always  like  that  ?  Perhaps  that  was  why  she  and 
Mrs.  Craven  had  laughed  when  they  were  asked 
whether  marriage  was  a  failure.  Mrs.  Craven 
had  no  children.  Nothing  to  think  about  but 
stars  and  spirits  and  her  food  and  baths  and  little 
silk  dresses  and  Mr.  Craven  treated  her  as  if  she 
were  a  child  he  had  got  tired  of  petting.  She 
did  not  even  go  fishing  with  him.  She  was  lying 
down  in  her  room  and  tea  would  be  taken  up  to 
her.  At  least  she  thought  of  herself  and  seemed  to 
enjoy  life.  But  she  was  getting  fatter  and  fatter. 
Mrs.  Corrie  did  not  want  anything  for  herself, 
except  for  the  fun  of  getting  things.    She  cared 


1 68  HONEYCOMB 

only  for  the  children  and  when  they  grew  up  they 
would  have  nothing  to  talk  to  her  about.  Sybil 
would  have  thoughts  behind  her  ugly  strong  face. 
She  would  tell  them  to  no  one.  The  boy  would 
adore  her,  until  his  wife  whom  he  would  adore 
came  between  them.  So  there  was  nothing  for 
women  in  marriage  and  children.  Because  they 
had  no  thoughts.  Their  husbands  grew  to  hate 
them  because  they  had  no  thoughts.  But  if  a 
woman  had  thoughts  a  man  would  not  be  "  silly  " 
about  her  for  five  years.  And  Mrs.  Corrie  had 
her  garden.  She  would  always  have  that,  when 
he  was  not  there. 

"  If  you  were  to  go  and  ask  him,"  said  Mrs. 
Corrie,  brushing  out  her  dress  with  her  hands, 
"  he'd  come  out." 

"  Me  /  "  said  Miriam  in  amazement. 

"  Yes,  go  on,  my  dear,  you  see  ;  he'll 
come." 

"  But  perhaps  he  doesn't  want  to,"  said  Miriam, 
suddenly  feeling  that  she  was  playing  a  familiar 
part  in  a  novel  and  wanting  to  feel  quite  sure 
she  was  reading  her  role  aright. 

"  You  go  and  try,"  laughed  Mrs.  Corrie 
gently.    "  Make  him  come  out." 

"  I'll  tell  him  you  wish  him  to  come,"  said 


HONEYCOMB  169 

Miriam  gravely,  getting  to  her  feet.  "  All  right" 
she  thought,  "  if  I  have  more  influence  over  him 
than  you  it's  not  my  fault,  not  anybody's  fault, 
but  how  horrid  you  must  feel." 

8 

Miriam's  trembling  fingers  gave  a  frightened 
fumbling  tap  at  the  study  door.  "  Come  in," 
said  Mr.  Corrie  officially,  and  coughed  a  loose, 
wheezy  cough.  He  was  sitting  by  the  fire  in  one 
of  the  huge  armchairs  and  didn't  look  up  as  she 
entered.  She  stood  with  the  door  half  closed 
behind  her,  fighting  against  her  fear  and  the  cold 
heavy  impression  of  his  dull  grey  dressing-gown 
and  the  grey  rug  over  his  knees. 

"  It's  so  lovely  in  the  garden,"  she  said, 
fervently  fixing  her  eyes  on  the  small  white  face, 
a  little  puffy  under  its  grizzled  hair.  He  looked 
stiffly  in  her  direction. 

"  The  sun  is  so  warm,"  she  went  on  hurriedly. 

"  Mrs.  Qorrie  thought "   she  stopped.       Of 

course  the  man  was  too  ill  to  be  worried.  For 
an  eternity  she  stood,  waiting.  Mr.  Corrie 
coughed  his  little  cough  and  turned  again  to  the 
fire.  If  only  she  could  sit  down  in  the  other  chair, 
saying  nothing  and  just  be  there.    He  looked  so 


170  HONEYCOMB 

unspeakably  desolate.  He  hated  being  there,  not 
able  to  play  or  work. 

"  I  hate  being  ill,"  she  said  at  last,  "  it  always 
seems  such  waste  of  time."  She  knew  she  had 
borrowed  that  from  someone  and  that  it  would 
only  increase  the  man's  impatience.  "  I  always 
have  to  act  and  play  parts,"  she  thought  angrily 
— and  called  impatiently  to  her  everyday  vision 
of  him  to  dispel  the  obstructive  figure  in  the 
armchair. 

"  Umph,"  said  Mr.  Corrie  judicially. 

"  You  could  have  a  chair,"  she  ventured,  "  and 
just  sit  quietly." 

"  No  thanks,  I'm  not  coming  out."  He  turned 
a  kind  face  in  her  direction  without  meeting  her 
eyes. 

"  You  have  such  a  nice  room,"  said  Miriam 
vaguely,  getting  to  the  door. 

"  Do  you  like  it  ?  "  It  was  his  everyday  voice, 
and  Miriam  stopped  at  the  door  without  turning. 

"  It's  so  absolutely  your  own,"  she  said. 

Mr.  Corrie  laughed.  "  That's  a  strange 
definition  of  charm." 

"  I  didn't  say  charming.    I  said  your  own." 

Mr.  Corrie  laughed  out.  "  Because  it's  mine  it's 
nice,  but  it  is,  for  the  same  reason,  not  charming." 


HONEYCOMB  171 


a 


You're  tying  me  up  into  something  I  haven't 
said.  There's  a  fallacy  in  what  you  have  just 
said,  somewhere." 

"  You'll  never  be  tied  up  in  anything,  made- 
moiselle— you'll  tie  other  people  up.  But  there 
was  no  fallacy." 

"  No  verbal  fallacy,"  said  Miriam  eagerly,  "  a 
fallacy  of  intention,  deliberate  misreading." 

"  No  wonder  you  think  the  sun  would  do  me 
good." 

"  How  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  I'm  such  a  miscreant." 

"  Oh  no,  you're  not,"  said  Miriam  comfort- 
ingly, turning  round.  "  I  don't  want  you  to 
come  out " — she  advanced  boldly  and  stirred  the 
fire.    "  I  always  like  to  be  alone  when  I'm  ill." 

"  That's  better,"  said  Mr.  Corrie. 

"  Good-bye,"  breathed  Miriam,  getting  rapidly 

to    the    door  .    .    .  poor    wretched    man  .  .  . 

wanting  quiet  kindness. 

"  Thank  you ;  good-bye,"  said  Mr.  Corrie 
gently. 

9 

"  Then  you'd  say,  Corrie,"  said  Mr.  Staple- 
Craven,  as  they  all  sat  down  to  dinner  on  Sunday 
evening    .    .    .    now     comes     flattery,    thought 


172  HONEYCOMB 

Miriam  calmly — nothing  mattered,  the  curtains 
were  back,  the  light  not  yet  gone  from  the 
garden  and  birds  were  fluting  and  chirruping 
out  there  on  the  lawn  where  she  had  played 
tennis  all  the  afternoon — at  home  there  was  the 
same  light  in  the  little  garden  and  Sarah  and 
Harriett  were  there  in  happiness,  she  would  see 
them  soon  and  meantime,  the  wonder,  the  fresh 
rosebuds,  this  year's,  under  the  clear  soft  lamp- 
light. 

"  You'd  say  that  no  one  was  to  blame  for  the 
accident." 

"  The  cause  of  the  accident  was  undoubtedly 
the  signalman's  sudden  attack  of  illness." 

Pause.  "  It  sounds,"  thought  Miriam,  "  as 
if  he  were  reading  from  the  Book  of  Judgment. 
It  isn't  true  either.  Perhaps  a  judgment  can 
never  be  true."  She  pondered  to  the  singing 
of  her  blood. 

"  In  other  words,"  said  one  of  the  younger 
men,  in  a  narrow  nasal  sneering  clever  voice, 
"  it  was  a  purely  accidental  accident." 

"  Purely,"  gurgled  Mr.  Corrie,  in  a  low, 
pleased  tone. 

"  They  think  they're  really  beginning,"  mused 
Miriam,  rousing  herself. 


HONEYCOMB  173 

"  A  genuine  accident  within  the  meaning  of 
the  act,"  blared  Mr.  Craven. 

An  actident,"  murmured  Mr.  Corrie. 
In  that  case,"  said  another  man,  "  I  mean 
since  the  man  was  discovered  ill,  not  drunk,  by  a 
doctor  in  his  box,  all  the  elaborate  legal  proceed- 
ings would  appear  to  be  rather — superfluous." 

"  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,"  said  Mr.  Corrie 
testily. 

Miriam  listened  gladly  to  the  anger  in  his  voice, 
watching  the  faint  movement  of  the  window 
curtains  and  waiting  for  the  justification  of  the 
law. 

"  The  thing  must  be  subject  to  a  detailed 
inquiry  before  the  man  can  be  cleared." 

"  He  might  have  felt  ill  before  he  took  up  his 
duties — you'd  hardly  get  him  to  admit  that." 

"  Lawyers  can  get  people  to  admit  anything," 
said  Mr.  Craven  cheerfully,  and  broke  the  silence 
that  followed  his  sally  by  a  hooting  monotonous 
recitative  which  he  delivered,  swaying  right  and 
left  from  his  hips,  "  that  is  to  say — they  by 
beneficently  pursuing  unexpected — quite  un- 
expected bypaths — suddenly  confront — their — 
their  examinees — with  the  truth — the  Truth." 

"  It's  quite  a  good  point'  to  suggest  that  the 


174  HONEYCOMB 

chap  felt  ill  earlier  in  the  day — that's  one  of  the 
things  you'd  have  to  find  out.  You'd  have,  at 
any  rate,  to  know  all  the  circumstances  of  the 
seizure." 

"  Indigestible  food,"  said  Miriam,  "  or  badly 
cooked  food." 

"  Ah,"  said  Mr.  Corrie,  his  face  clearing, 
"  that's  an  excellent  refinement." 

"  In  that  case  the  cause  of  the  accident  would 
be  the  cook." 

Mr.  Corrie  laughed  delightedly. 

"  I  don't  say  that  because  I'm  interested,  but 
because  I  wanted  to  take  sides  with  him,"  thought 
Miriam,  "  the  others  know  that  and  resent  it 
and  now  I'm  interested." 

"  Perhaps,"  she  said,  feeling  anxiously  about 
the  incriminated  cook,  "  the  real  cause  then  would 
be  a  fault  in  her  upbringing,  I  mean  he  may  have 
lately  married  a  young  woman  whose  mother 
had  not  taught  her  cooking." 

"  Oh,  you  can't  go  back  further  than  the  cook," 
said  Mr.  Corrie  finally. 

"  But  the  cause,"  she  persisted,  in  a  low, 
anxious  voice,  "  is  the  sum  total  of  all  the  cir- 


cumstances." 


"  No,  no,"  said  Mr.  Corrie  impenetrably,  with 


HONEYCOMB  175 

a  hard  face — "  you  can't  take  the  thing  back  into 
the  mists  of  the  past." 

He  dropped  her  and  took  up  a  lead  coming 
from  a  man  at  the  other  end  of  the  table. 

"  Oh,"  thought  Miriam  coldly,  appraising 
him  with  a  glance,  the  slightly  hollow  temples, 
the  small  skull,  a  little  flattened,  the  lack  of 
height  in  the  straight  forehead,  why  had  she  not 
noticed  that  before  ? — the  general  stinginess  of 
the  head  balancing  the  soft  keen  eyes  and  whimsi- 
cal mouth — "  that's  you  ;  you  won't,  you  can't 
look  at  anything  from  the  point  of  view  of  life 
as  a  whole  " — she  shivered  and  drew  away  from 
the  whole  spectacle  and  pageant  of  Newlands' 
life.  It  all  had  this  behind  it,  a  man,  able  to  do 
and  decide  things  who  looked  about  like  a  ferret 
for  small  clever  things,  causes,  immediate  near 
causes  that  appeared  to  explain,  and  explained 
nothing  and  had  nothing  to  do  with  anything. 
Her  hot  brain  whirled  back — signalmen,  in  bad 
little  houses  with  bad  cooking — tinned  foods — 
they're  a  link — they  bring  all  sorts  of  things  into 
their  signal  boxes.  They  ought  to  bring  the 
fewest  possible  dangerous  things.  Something 
ought  to  be  done. 

Lawyers  were  quite  happy,  pleased  with  them- 


176  HONEYCOMB 

selves  if  they  made  some  one  person  guilty — put 
their  finger  on  him.  "  Can't  go  back  into  the 
mists  of  the  past  .  .  .  you  didn't  understand, 
you're  not  capable  of  understanding  any  real 
movements  of  thought.  I  always  knew  it.  You 
think — in  propositions.  Can't  go  back.  Of 
course  you  can  go  back,  and  round  and  up  and 
everywhere.  Things  as  a  whole  .  .  .  you  under- 
stand nothing.  We've  done.  That's  you.  Mr. 
Corrie — a  leading  Q.C.    Heavens." 

In  that  moment  Miriam  felt  that  she  left 
Newlands  for  ever.  She  glanced  at  Mrs.  Corrie 
and  Mrs.  Craven  —  bright  beautiful  coloured 
birds,  fading  slowly  year  by  year  in  the  stifling 
atmosphere,  the  hard  brutal  laughing  complacent 
atmosphere  of  men's  minds  .  .  .  men's  minds, 
staring  at  things,  ignorantly,  knowing  "  every- 
thing "  in  an  irritating  way  and  yet  ignorant. 


CHAPTER    X 

i 

COMING  home  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
Miriam  found  the  little  villa  standing  quiet 
and  empty  in  the  sunshine.  The  sound  of  her 
coming  down  the  empty  tree-lined  roadway  had 
brought  no  face  to  either  of  the  open  windows. 
She  stood  on  the  short  fresh  grass  in  the  small 
front  garden  looking  up  at  the  empty  quiet 
windows.  During  her  absence  the  dark  winter 
villa  had  changed.  It  had  become  home.  The 
little  red  brick  facade  glowed  as  she  looked  up  at 
it.  It  belonged  to  her  family.  All  through  the 
spring  weather  they  had  been  living  behind  the 
small  bright  house-front.  It  was  they  who  had 
set  those  windows  open  and  left  them  standing 
open  to  the  spring  air.  They  had  gone  out,  of 
course ;  all  of  them  ;  to  be  busy  about  the 
weddings.  But  inside  was  a  place  for  her ; 
things  ready  ;  a  bed  prepared  where  she  would 
lie  to-night  in  the  darkness.  The  sun  would 
come  up  to-morrow  and  be  again  on  this  green 
n  177 


178  HONEYCOMB 

grass.     She  could  come  out  on  the  grass  in  the 

morning. 

2 

The  sounds  of  her  knocking  and  ringing  echoed 
through  the  house  with  a  summery  resonance. 
All  the  inside  doors  were  standing  open.  Foot- 
steps came  and  the  door  opened  upon  Mary. 
She  had  forgotten  Mary  and  stood  looking  at 
her.  Mary  stood  in  her  lilac  print  dress  and  little 
mob  cap,  filling  the  doorway  in  the  full  sunlight. 
She  had  shone  through  all  the  years  in  the 
grey  basement  kitchens  at  Barnes.  Miriam  had 
never  before  seen  her  face  to  face  in  the  sunlight, 
her  tawny  red  Somersetshire  hair ;  the  tawny 
freckles  on  the  soft  rose  of  her  face;  the  red  in 
her  shy  warm  eyes.  They  both  stood  gazing. 
The  strong  sweet  curve  of  Mary's  bony  chin 
moved  her  thoughtful  mouth.  "  How  nice  you 
do  look,  Miss  Mirry."  Miriam  took  her  by  the 
arm  and  trundled  her  into  the  house.  They 
moved  into  the  little  dining-room  filled  with  a 
blaze  of  sunlight  and  smelling  of  leather  and 
tobacco  and  fresh  brown  paper  and  string  and 
into  the  dim  small  drawing-room  at  the  back. 
The  tiny  greenhouse  plastered  on  its  hindmost 
wall  was  full  of  growing  things.     Mary  dropped 


HONEYCOMB  179 

phrases,  offering  Miriam  her  share  of  the  things 
that  had  happened  while  she  had  been  away. 
She  listened  deferentially,  her  heart  rising  high. 
After  all  these  years  she  and  Mary  were  confess- 
ing their  love  to  each  other. 

3 

She  went  down  the  road  with  a  bale  of  art 
muslin  over  her  shoulder  and  carrying  a  small 
bronze  table-lamp  with  a  pink  silk  shade.  The 
bright  bunchy  green  heads  of  the  little  lopped 
acacia  trees  bobbed  against  their  background  of 
red  brick  villa  as  she  walked  .  .  .  little  moving 
green  lampshades  for  Harriett's  life  ;  they  were 
like  Harriett ;  like  her  delicate  laughter  and 
absurdity.  The  sounds  of  the  footsteps  of 
passers-by  made  her  rejoice  more  keenly  in  her 
burdens.  She  felt  herself  a  procession  of  sacred 
emblems,  in  the  sunshine.  The  sunshine  streamed 
about  her  from  an  immense  height  of  blue  sky. 
The  sky  had  never  .been  so  high  as  it  was  above 
Harriett's  green  acacias.  It  had  gone  soaring  up 
to-day  for  them  all ;   their  sky. 

That  eldest  Wheeler  girl,  going  off  to  India, 
to  marry  a  divorced  man.    Julia  seemed  to  think 


180  HONEYCOMB 

it  did  not  matter  if  she  were  happy.  How  could 
she  be  happy  ?  .  .  .  Coming  home  from  the 
"  Second  Mrs.  Tanqueray  "  Bennett  had  asked 
Sarah  if  she  would  have  married  a  man  with  a 
past  ...  it  was  not  only  that  his  studies  had 
kept  him  straight.  It  was  himself  .  .  .  and 
Gerald  too.  It  was  .  .  .  there  were  two  kinds 
of  men.  You  could  tell  them  at  a  glance.  Life 
was  clean  and  fresh  for  Sarah  and  Harriett.  .  .  . 
There,  were  two  kinds  of  people.  Most  of  the 
people  who  were  going  about  ought  to  be  shut 
up,  somehow,  in  prison. 

4 

Eve  came  into  the  little  room  with  her  arms 
full  of  Japanese  anemones.  Behind  her  came  a 
tall  man  with  red-brown  hair,  a  stout  fresh  face 
and  beautifully  cut  clothes.  Miriam  bowed  him 
a  greeting  without  waiting  for  introduction  and 
went  on  arranging  her  festoons  of  art  muslin 
about  the  white  wooden  mantelpiece.  He  was 
carrying  a  trayful  of  little  fluted  green  glasses 
each  half  filled  with  water.  He  came  into  the 
room  on  a  holiday — a  little  interval  in  his  man's 
life — delighted  to  be  arranging  the  tray  of 
glasses ;     half    contemptuous    and    very    happy. 


HONEYCOMB  181 

Pleased  and  surprised  at  himself  and  ready  for 
miracles.  He  was  not  married — but  he  was  a 
marrying  man — a  ladies'  man — a  man  of  the  world 
— something  like  Bob  Greville — with  the  same 
sort  of  attitude  towards  women.  ..."  The 
vagaries  of  the  Fair  "  .  .  -.(a  special  manner  for 
women  and  a  clubby  life  of  his  own,  with  men. 
Women  meant  sex  to  him,  the  reproduction  of 
the  species  my  dear  chap,  and  his  comforts  and  a 
little  music  on  Sunday  afternoon.  He  loved 
his  mother,  that  was  certain,  Miriam  felt,  from 
something  in  his  voice,  and  respected  all  mothers ; 
the  sort  of  man  who  would  "  look  after "  a 
woman  properly,  but  would  never  know  any- 
thing about  her.  And  there  was  something  in 
himself  that  he  knew  nothing  about.  Some 
woman  would  live  with  him  in  loneliness,  mad- 
dened, waiting  for  that  something  to  speak. 
Secretly  he  would  be  half  contemptuous,  half 
afraid  of  her  and  would  keep  on  always  with  that 
mocking,  obsequious,  patronising  manner.  Hor- 
rible— and  so  easy  to  deceive,  and  yet  cruel  to 
deceive.  Hit  him  ...  hit  him  awake.  He  put 
down  the  tray  of  glasses  near  the  heap  of  anemones 
that  Eve  had  flung  on  the  table  and  enquired 
whether  they  were  to  put'  one  bloom  in  each 


1 82  HONEYCOMB 

glass.  .  .  .  He  had  a  secret,  indulgent  life  of  his 
own.  Did  he  imagine  that  no  one  knew  ?  .  .  . 
Eve  giggled  and  tittered  .  .  .  this  new  giggling 
way  of  Eve's  .  .  .  perhaps  it  was  the  way  the 
Greens  treated  young  men  ;  arch  and  silly,  like 
the  girls  at  the  tennis  club.  He  must  see  through 
it.  He  was  not  in  the  least  like  the  tennis  club 
young  men,  most  of  whom  needed  to  be  giggled 
at  before  they  could  be  anything  but  just  sneery 
and  silly. 

5 
But  it  was  fascinating,  like  something  in  a 
novel  come  true ;  the  latest  tableau  in  all  the 
wedding  tableaux ;  their  own.  Bennett  and 
Gerald  had  swept  the  lonely  Henderson  family 
into  this.  One  was  going  to  be  a  sister-in-law 
for  certain,  to-morrow.  .  .  .  Held  up  by  this 
dignity  Miriam  concentrated  on  her  folds  and 
loops,  adjusting  and  pinning  with  her  back  to 
the  room,  listening  to  the  sparring  and  giggling, 
the  sounds  of  the  tinkling  glasses — the  scissors 
snipping  and  dropping  with  a  rattle  on  to  the 
table,  the  soft  flurring  of  shifted  blossoms.  The 
moment  was  coming.  The  man  was  being 
impudently  patronising  to  Eve,  but  really  talk- 
ing at  her,  trying  to  make  her  turn  round.    She 


HONEYCOMB  183 

did  not  want  him.  There  was  something  .  .  . 
some  quality  in  men  that  this  kind  of  man  did 
not  possess  .  .  .  something  she  knew  .  .  .  who  ? 
It  was  somewhere,  but  not  in  him.  Still,  his 
being  there  gave  an  edge  to  her  freedom  and 
happiness.  She  owed  him  some  kind  of  truth 
.  .  .  some  blow  or  shock.  Holding  her  last 
festoon  in  place  she  consulted  some  jumbled 
memory  and  found  a  phrase :  "  Will  you  people 
leave  off  squabbling  and  just  see  if  this  is  all  right 
before  I  nail  it  up  ?  "  She  spoke  in  a  cool  even 
tone  that  filled  the  room.  It  startled  her,  making 
her  feel  sad,  small  and  guilty.  Still  with  her  back 
to  the  room  she  waited  during  the  moment  of 
silence  that  followed  her  words.  "  It's  simply 
lovely,  Mirry,"  said  Eve.  Had  she  been  more 
vulgar  than  Eve  ?  She  knew  her  decoration  was 
all  right  and  did  not  want  an  opinion.  She 
wanted  to  crush  the  man's  behaviour,  trample 
on  it  and  fling  it  out  of  the  room.  Eve  was 
sweeter  and  more  lovable  than  she.  Mother 
said  it  was  natural  and  right  to  laugh  and  joke 
with  young  men.    No  .  .  .  no  .  .  .  no.  .  .  . 

She  glanced,  asking  Eve  to  hold  the  corner 
while  she  went  for  the  hammer  and  nails.  Eve 
came  eagerly  forward.     The  man  was  standing 


1 84  HONEYCOMB 

upright  and  motionless  by  the  table,  looking 
quietly  at  her  as  she  stood  back  for  Eve  to  substi- 
tute a  supporting  hand.  "  Er — let  me  do  that," 
he  said  gravely — "  or  go  for  the  hammer."  He 
was  at  the  door :  "  Oh — thanks,"  said  Miriam, 
in  a  hard  tone ;  "  you  will  find  it  in  the 
kitchen." 

Eve  remained  holding  the  muslin  with  down- 
cast face  and  conscious  lips.  Seizing  a  vase  of 
anemones  Miriam  put  it  on  the  marble,  bunch- 
ing up  the  muslin  to  hide  the  vase. 

"  This  is  their  smoking-room,"  she  said,  her 
voice  praying  for  tolerance.  Eve  beamed  sadly 
and  gladly.  "  Yes — isn't  it  jolly  ?  "  Joining 
hands  they  waltzed  about  the  room.  Eve  did  not 
really  mind  ;  she  fought,  but  there  was  some- 
thing in  her  that  did  not  mind. 

6 

Through  the  French  windows  of  the  new 
drawing-room  Miriam  saw  a  group  of  figures 
moving  towards  the  end  of  the  garden.  In  a 
moment  they  would  have  reached  the  low  brick 
wall  at  the  end  of  the  garden.  They  might  stand 
talking  there  with  their  heads  outlined  against 
the  green  painted  trellis-work  that  ran  along  the 


HONEYCOMB  185 

top  of  the  wall  or  they  might  walk  back  towards 
the  house  and  see  her  at  the  window. 

She  hid  herself  from  view.  The  room  closed 
round  her.  She  could  not  sit  down  on  one  of 
the  new  chairs.  The  room  was  too  full.  Things 
were  speaking  to  her.  Their  challenge  had  sent 
her  to  the  window  when  she  came  into  the  room. 
It  had  made  her  feel  like  a  trespasser.  Now  she 
was  caught.  She  stood  breathing  in  curious 
odours ;  faint  odours  of  new  wood  and  fresh 
upholstery,  and  the  strange  strong  subdued 
emanation  coming  from  the  black  grand  piano,  a 
mingling  of  the  smell  of  aromatic  wood  with  the 
hard  raw  bitter  tang  of  metal  and  the  muffled 
woolly  pungency  of  new  felting. 

The  whole  of  the  floor  space  up  to  the  edge  of 
the  skirting  was  filled  by  a  soft  thick  rich  carpet 
of  clear  green  with  a  border  and  centre-piece  of 
large  soft  fresh  pink  full-blown  roses.  Stand- 
ing about  on  it  were  a  set  of  little  delicate  shiny 
black  chairs,  with  seats  covered  with  silken 
stripings  of  pink  and  green,  two  great  padded 
easy-chairs,  deep  cushioned  and  low-seated,  and 
three  little  polished  black  tables  of  different 
shapes.  A  black  overmantel  with  shelves  and  side 
brackets,  holding  fluted  white  bowls  framed  a 


1 86  HONEYCOMB 

long  strip  of  deeply  bevelled  mirror.  The  wooden 
mantelpiece  was  draped  at  the  sides  like  the  high 
French  windows  with  soft  straight  hanging 
green  silk  curtains.  At  the  windows  long 
creamy  net  curtains  hung,  pulled  in  narrow 
straight  folds  just  within  the  silk  ones. 

The  walls  swept  up  dimly  striped  with  rose  and 
green,  the  green  misty  and  changeful,  glossy  or 
dull  as  you  moved.  And  on  the  widest  spaced 
wall  dreadful  presences  .  .  .  two  long  narrow 
dark-framed  pictures,  safe  and  far-off  and  dreamy 
in  shop  windows,  but  now,  shut  in  here,  suddenly 
full  of  sad  heavy  dreadful  meaning.  A  girl, 
listening  to  the  words  she  had  waited  for,  not 
seeing  the  youth  who  is  gazing  at  her,  not  even 
thinking  of  him,  but  seeing  suddenly  everything 
opening  far  far  away,  and  leaving  him,  going  on 
alone,  to  things  he  will  never  see,  joining  the 
lonely  women  of  the  past,  feeling  her  old  self  still 
there,  wanting  everyone  to  know  that  she  was 
still  there,  and  cut  off,  for  ever.  There  was 
something  ahead  ;  but  she  could  not  take  him 
with  her.  He  would  see  it  now  and  again,  in  her 
face,  but  would  never  understand.  And  the  other 
picture  ;  the  girl  grown  into  a  woman  ;  just 
married,  her  face  veiled  forever,  her  eyes  closed  ; 


HONEYCOMB  187 

sinking  into  the  tide,  his  strong  frame  near  her 
the  only  reality ;  blindly  trying  to  get  back  to 
him  across  the  tide  of  separation. 

Their  child  will  come — throwing  even  the 
support  of  him  off  and  away,  making  her  mon- 
strous .  .  .  and  then  born  into  life  between 
them,  forever,  "  drawing  them  together,"  show- 
ing they  were  separate  ;  between  them,  forever. 
There  was  no  getting  away  from  that. 

The  strange  strong  crude  odours  breathing 
quietly  out  from  the  open  lid  of  the  new  piano 
seemed  to  support  them,  to  make  them  more 
mockingly  inexorable. 

7 

The  smell  of  the  piano  would  go  on  being  there 
while  inexorable  things  happened. 

Voices  were  sounding  in  the  garden.  .  .  . 

Hanging  on  either  side  of  the  mantelpiece  were 
two  more  pictures — square  green  garden  scenes. 
.  .  .  There  was  relief  in  the  deeps  of  the  gardens 
and  in  under  the  huge  spreading  trees  that  nearly 
filled  the  sky.  There  were  tiresome  people  fussing 
in  the  foreground  .  .  .  Marcus  Stone  people — 
having  scenes — not  noticing  the  garden  ;  getting 
in  the  way  of  the  garden.     But  the  garden  was 


188  HONEYCOMB 

there,  blazing,  filled  with  some  particular  time 
of  day,  always  being  filled  with  different  times  of 
day. 

There  would  be  in-between  times  for  Harriett 
— her  own  times.  Times  when  she  would  be  at 
peace  in  this  room  near  the  garden.  Away  from 
the  kitchen  and  strange-eyed  servants,  and  from 
the  stern  brown  and  yellow  pig-skin  dining-room. 
In  here  she  would  have  fragrant  little  teas ;  and 
talk  as  if  none  of  those  other  things  existed.  There 
were  figures  standing  at  the  French  window. 

8 

She  opened  the  window  upon  Harriett  and 
Gerald.  Standing  a  little  aloof  from  them  was  a 
man.  As  Harriett  spoke  to  her  Miriam  met  his 
strange  eyes  wide  and  dark,  unseeing ;  no, 
glaring  at  things  that  did  not  interest  him  .  .  . 
desperate,  playing  a  part.  His  thin  squarish 
frame  hung  loosely,  whipped  and  beaten,  within 
his  dark  clothes. 

His  eyes  passed  expressionlessly  from  her  face 
to  Harriett. 

A  great  gust  of  laughter  sounded  from  the 
open  kitchen  window  away  to  the  left,  screened 
by  a  trellis  over  which  the  lavish  trailings  of  a 


HONEYCOMB  189 

creeper  made  a  bright  green  curtain.  It  was 
Bennett's  voice.  He  had  just  accomplished 
something  or  other. 

"  Ullo,"  said  Harriett.  The  strange  man  was 
holding  his  lower  lip  in  with  his  teeth,  as  if  in 
horror  or  pain.  .  .  .  They  stood  in  a  row  on  the 
gravel. 

"  Let  me  introduce  Mr.  Grove,"  said  Harriett, 
with  a  shy  movement  of  her  head  and  shoulders, 
keeping  her  hands  clasped.  Her  face  was  all 
broken  up.  She  could  either  laugh  or  cry.  But 
there  was  something,  a  sort  of  light,  chiselling  it, 
holding  everything  back. 

Miriam  bowed.  "  What's  Bennett  doing  ?  " 
she  said  hurriedly. 

"  The  last  time  /  saw  him  he  was  standing  on 
the  kitchen  table  fighting  with  the  gas  bracket," 
said  Gerald. 

The  sallow  man  drew  in  his  breath  sharply  and 
stood  aside,  staring  down  the  garden.  Miriam 
glanced  at  him,  wondering.  He  was  not  criticis- 
ing Gerald.     It  was  something  else. 

"  I  say,  Mirry,  what  did  you  do  to  old  Tre- 
mayne  this  morning  ?  "  went  on  Gerald. 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  said  Miriam  interested. 
This  was  the  novel  going  on.  .  .  . 


190  HONEYCOMB 

She  must  read  it  through  even  at  this  strange 
moment  .  .  .  this  moment  was  the  right  setting 
to  read  through  Gerald  that  little  exciting  far- 
away finished  thing  of  the  morning,  to  know 
that  it  had  been  right.  She  felt  decked.  Gerald 
stood  confronting  her  and  spoke  low,  fingering 
the  anemones  in  her  belt.  The  others  were  talk- 
ing. Harriett  in  high  short  laughing  sentences, 
the  man  gasping  and  moaning  his  replies,  making 
jerky  movements.  He  was  not  considering  his 
words,  but  looking  for  the  right,  appropriate 
things  to  say.  Miriam  rejoiced  over  him  as  she 
smiled  encouragingly  at  Gerald. 

"  Well,  my  dear,  he  wanted  to  know — who  you 
were  ;  and  he  swears  he's  going  to  be  engaged  to 
you  before  the  year  is  out." 

"  What  abominable  cheek,"  said  Miriam,  flush- 
ing with  delight.  Then  she  had  taken  the  right 
line.    How  easy.    This  was  how  things  happened. 

"  No,  my  dear,  he  didn't  mean  to  be  cheeky." 

"  I  call  it  the  most  abominable  cheek." 

"  No  you  don't  "  ;  Gerald  was  looking  at  her 
with  fatherly  solicitude.  "  That's  what  he  said 
anyhow — and  he  meant  it.    Ask  Harry." 

"  Frivolous  young  man." 

"  Well,  he's  an  awful  flirt,  I  warn  you  ;    but 


HONEYCOMB  191 

he's  struck  this  time — all  of  a  heap  .  .  .  came 
and  raved  about  you  the  minute  he'd  seen  you, 
and  when  he  heard  you  were  Harry's  sister  that's 
what  he  said." 

"  I'm  sure  I'm  awfully  obliged  to  his  majesty." 
Gerald  laughed  and  turned,  looking  for  Har- 
riett and  moving  to  her.  Miriam  caught  at  a 
vision  of  the  well-appointed  man,  a  year  ...  a 
home  full  of  fresh  new  things,  no  more  need  to 
make  money ;  a  stylish  contented  devoted  sort 
of  man,  who  knew  nothing  about  one.  It  would 
be  a  fraud,  unfair  to  him  ...  so  easy  to  pretend 
to  admire  him  .  .  .  well,  there  it  was  ...  an 
offer  of  freedom  .  .  .  that  was  admirable,  in 
almost  any  man,  the  power  to  lift  one  out  into 
freedom.  He  wanted  to  lift  her  out — her,  not 
any  other  woman.  It  was  rather  wonderful,  and 
appealing.  She  hung  over  his  moment  of  cer- 
tainty in  pride  and  triumph.  But  there  was 
something  wrong  somewhere  ;  though  she  felt 
that  someone  had  placed  a  jewel  in  her  hair. 
Gerald  had  drawn  Harriett  through  the  doorway 
into  the  drawing-room.  The  sunlight  followed 
them.  They  looked  solid  and  powerful.  The 
strange  terrors  of  the  room  were  challenged  by 
their  sunlit  figures. 


192  HONEYCOMB 

9 

Moving  to  the  side  of  Gerald's  strange  friend 
Miriam  said  something  about  the  garden  in  a 
determined  manner.  He  drew  a  sawing  breath 
without  answering.  They  walked  down  the  short 
garden.  It  moved  about  them  in  an  intensity  of 
afternoon  colour.  He  did  not  know  it  was  there  ; 
there  was  something  between  him  and  the  little 
coloured  garden.  He  walked  with  bent  head,  his 
head  dipping  from  his  shoulders  with  a  little  bob 
at  each  step.  Miriam  wanted  to  make  him  feel 
the  garden  moving  round  them  ;  either  she  must 
do  that  or  ask  him  why  he  was  suffering.  He 
walked  responsively,  as  if  they  were  talking.  He 
was  feeling  some  sort  of  reprieve  .  .  .  perhaps 
the  afternoon  had  bored  him.  They  had  turned 
and  were  walking  back  towards  the  house.  If 
they  reached  it  without  speaking,  they  would  not 
have  courage  to  go  down  the  garden  again.  She 
could  not  relinquish  the  strange  painful  comrade- 
ship so  soon.  They  must  go  on  expressing  their 
relief  at  being  together  ;  anything  she  might  say 
would  destroy  that.  She  wanted  to  take  him  by  the 
arm  and  groan  ...  on  Harriett's  wedding-eve,  and 
when  she  was  feeling  so  happy  and  triumphant.  .  .  . 


HONEYCOMB  193 

"  Have  you  known  Gerald  long  ?  "  she  said,  as 
they  reached  the  house.  He  turned  sharply  to 
face  the  garden  again. 

'  Oh,  for  a  very  great  number  of  years,"  he 
said  quickly,  "  a — very — great — number."  His 
voice  was  the  voice  of  the  ritualistic  curate  at 
All  Saints.  He  sighed  impatiently.  What  was 
it  he  was  waiting  for  her  to  say  ?  Nothing  per- 
haps. This  busy  walking  was  a  way  of  finishing 
his  visit  without  having  to  try  to  talk  to  anybody. 

"  How  different  people  are,"  she  said  airily. 

"  I'm  very  different,"  he  said,  with  his  rasping, 
indrawn  breath.  A  darkness  coming  from  him 
enfolded  her. 

"  Are  you  ?  "  she  said  insincerely.  Her  eyes 
consulted  the  flowered  border.  She  saw  it  as  he 
saw  it,  just  a  flowered  border,  meaningless. 

"  You  cannot  possibly  imagine  what  I  am." 

Her  mind  leapt  out  to  the  moving  garden, 
recapturing  it  scornfully.  He  is  conceited  about 
his  difficulties  and  differences.  He  doesn't  think 
about  mine.  But  he  couldn't  talk  like  this  unless 
he  knew  I  were  different.  He  knows  it,  but  is  not 
thinking  about  me. 

"  Don't  you  think  people  are  all  alike,  really  ?  " 
she  said  impatiently. 


194  HONEYCOMB 

"  Our  common  humanity,"  he  said  bitingly. 

She  had  lost  a  thread.  They  were  divided.  She 
felt  stiffly  about  for  a  conventional  phrase. 

"  I  expect  that  most  men  are  the  average 
manly  man  with  the  average  manly  faults." 
She  had  read  that  somewhere.  It  was  sly  and 
wrong,  written  by  somebody  who  wanted  to 
flatter. 

"  It  is  wonderful,  wonderful  that  you  should 
say  that  to  me."  He  stared  at  the  grass  with 
angry  eyes.  His  mouth  smiled.  His  teeth  were 
large  and  even.  They  seemed  to.  smile  by  them- 
selves. The  dark,  flexible  lips  curled  about  them 
in  an  unwilling  grimace. 

"  He's  in  some  horrible  pit,"  thought  Miriam, 
shrinking  from  the  sight  of  the  desolate  garden. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  in  life  ?  "  she  said 
suddenly. 

During  the  long  silent  interval  she  had  felt  a 
growing  longing  to  hurt  him  in  some  way. 

"  If  I  had  my  will — if — I  had  my  will — I 
should  escape  from  the  world." 

"  What  would  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  should  join  a  brotherhood." 

"  Oh.  .  .  ." 

"  That  is  the  life  I  should  choose." 


HONEYCOMB  195 

"  Do  you  see  how  unfair  everything  is  ?  " 

"  Um  ?  " 

"  If  a  woman  joins  an  order  she  must  confess 
to  a  man." 

"  Yes,"  he  said  indifferently.  ..."  Ij|can't 
carry  out  my  wish,  I  can't  carry  out  my  dearest 
wish." 

"  You  have  a  dearest  wish  ;  that  is  a  good  deal." 

She  ought  to  ask  him  why  not  and  what  he  was 
going  to  do.  But  what  did  it  matter  ?  He  was 
going  unwillingly  along  some  dreary  path.  There 
was  some  weak  helplessness  about  him.  He 
would  always  have  a  grievance  and  be  sorry  for 
himself  .  .  .  self-pity.    She  remained  silent. 

"  I'm  training  for  the  Bar,"  he  murmured, 
staring  away  across  the  neighbouring  gardens. 

"  Why — in  Heaven's  name  ?  " 

"  I  have  no  choice." 

"  But  it's  absurd.    You  are  almost  a  priest." 

"  The  Bar.    That  is  my  bourne." 

"  Lawyers  are  the  most  ignorant,  awful 
people." 

"  I  cannot  claim  superiority."  He  laughed 
bitterly. 

"  But  you  can  ;  you  are.  You  can  never  be  a 
lawyer." 


196  HONEYCOMB 

"  It  is  necessary  to  do  one's  duty.  Occupation 
does  not  matter." 

"  There  you  are  ;  you're  a  Jesuit  already," 
said  Miriam  angrily,  seeing  the  figure  at  her  side 
shrouded  in  a  habit,  wrapped  in  tranquillity, 
pacing  along  a  cloister,  lost  to  her.  But  if  he 
stayed  in  the  world  and  became  a  lawyer  he  would 
be  equally  lost  to  her. 

"  I  have  been  .  .  .  mad"  he  muttered  ;  "  a 
madman  .  .  .  nothing  but  the  cloister  can  give 
me  peace — nothing  but  the  cloister." 

"  I  don't  know.    It  seems  like  running  away." 

"  Running  towards,  running  towards " 

Can't  you  be  at  peace  now,  in  this  garden  ? 
ran  her  thoughts.  I  don't  condemn  you  for 
anything.  Why  can't  we  stop  worrying  at  things 
and  be  at  peace  ?  If  I  were  beautiful  I  could  make 
you  be  at  peace — perhaps.  But  it  would  be  a 
trick.  Only  real  religion  can  help  you.  I  can't 
do  anything.  You  are  religious.  I  must  keep 
still  and  quiet.  ... 

If  some  cleansing  fire  could  come  and  consume 
them  both  .  .  .  flaring  into  the  garden  and 
consuming  them  both,  together.  Neither  of 
them  were  wanted  in  the  world.  No  one  would 
ever  want  either  of  them.    Then  why  could  they 


HONEYCOMB  197 

not   want   each   other  ?      He   did   not   wish   it. 
Salvation.    He  wanted  salvation — for  himself. 

"  My  people  must  be  considered  first,"  he  said 
speculatively. 

"  They  want  you  to  be  a  barrister.  That's 
the  last  reason  in  the  world  that  would  affect  meP 

He  glanced  at  her  with  far-off  speculative  eyes, 
his  upper  lip  drawn  terribly  back  from  his  teeth. 

"  He  is  thinking  I  am  a  hard  unfeminine  ill- 
bred  woman." 

"  I  do  it  as  an  atonement." 

The  word  rang  in  the  garden  .  .  .  the  low 
tone  of  a  bell.  Her  thoughts  leaned  towards  the 
strength  at  her  side. 

"  Oh,  that's  grand,"  she  said  hastily,  and 
fluted  quickly  on,  wondering  where  the  inspira- 
tion had  come  from  :  "  Luther  said  it's  much 
more  difficult  to  live  in  the  world  than  in  a  cell." 

"  I  am  glad  I  have  met  you,  glad  I  have  met 
you,"  he  said,  in  a  clear  light  tone. 

She  felt  she  knew  the  quality  of  the  family 
voice,  the  way  he  had  spoken  as  a  lad,  before  his 
troubles  came,  his  own  voice  easy  and  sincere. 
The  flowers  shone  firm  and  steady  on  their 
stalks. 

She  laughed  and  rushed  on  into  cheerful  words, 


198  HONEYCOMB 

but  his  harsh  voice  drowned  hers.  "  You  have 
put  my  life  in  a  nutshell." 

"  How  uncomfortable  for  you,"  she  giggled 
excitedly. 

He  laughed  with  a  dip  of  the  head  obsequiously. 
There  was  a  catch  of  mirth  in  his  tone. 

Miriam  laughed  and  laughed,  laughing  out 
fully  in  relief.  He  turned  towards  her  a  young 
lit  face,  protesting  and  insisting.  She  wanted  to 
wash  it,  with  soap,  to  clear  away  a  faint  greasiness 
and  do  something  with  the  lank,  despairing  hair. 

"  You  have  come  at  the  right  instant,  and  shown 
me  wisdom.    You  are  wonderful." 

She  recoiled.  She  did  not  really  want  to  help 
him.  She  wanted  to  attract  his  attention  to  her. 
She  had  done  it  and  he  did  not  know  it.  Horrible. 
They  were  both  caught  in  something.  She  had 
wanted  to  be  caught,  together  with  this  agonising 
priestliness.  But  it  was  a  trick.  Perhaps  they 
hated  each  other  now. 

"  It  is  jolly  to  talk  about  things,"  she  said,  as 
the  blood  surged  into  her  face. 

He  was  grave  again  and  did  not  answer. 

"  People  don't  talk  about  things  nearly  enough," 
she  pursued. 


HONEYCOMB  199 

10 

"  I  saw  Miriam  through  the  window,  deep  in 
conversation  with  a  most  interesting  young  man." 

"  Have  those  people  written  about  the  bou- 
quets ?  "  said  Miriam  irritably.  .  .  .  Then 
mother  had  moved  about  the  new  house  and  was 
looking  through  those  drawing-room  windows 
this  afternoon.  She  had  looked  about  the  house 
with  someone  else,  saying  all  the  wrong  things, 
admiring  things  in  the  wrong  way,  impressed  in 
the  wrong  way,  having  no  thoughts,  and  no  one 
with  her  to  tell  her  what  to  think.  .  .  . 

She  flashed  a  passionate  glance  towards  the 
clear  weak  flexible  voice,  half  seeing  the  flushed 
face  .  .  .  you're  not  upset  about  the  weddings — 
"  Miriam's  scandalous  goings-on  the  whole  day 
long,"  said  somebody  .  .  .  because  you've  got 
me.  You  don't  know  me.  You  wouldn't  like  me 
if  you  did.  You  don't  know  him.  He  doesn't 
know  you.  But  I  know  you,  that's  the  differ- 
ence. .  .  . 

"  I've  just  thought  something  out,"  she  said 
aloud,  her  voice  drowned  by  two  or  three  voices 
and  the  sound  of  things  being  served  and  handed 
about  the  supper-table.     They  were  trying  to 


200  HONEYCOMB 

draw  her— still  talking  about  the  young  men  and 
her  "  goings-on."  They  did  not  know  how  far 
away  she  was  and  how  secure  she  felt.  She  laughed 
towards  her  mother  and  smiled  at  her  until  she 
made  her  blush.  Ah,  she  thought  proudly,  it's 
I  who  am  your  husband.  Why  have  I  not  been 
with  you  all  your  life  ?  .  .  .  all  the  times  you 
were  alone  ;  I  knew  them  all.  No  one  else  knows 
them. 

"  I  say,"  she  insisted,  "  what  about  the 
bouquets  ?  " 

Mrs.  Henderson  raised  her  eyebrows  helplessly 
and  smiled,  disclaiming. 

"  Hasn't  anybody  done  anything  ?  "  roared 
Miriam. 

Mary  came  in  with  a  dish  of  fruit.  Everyone 
went  on  so  placidly.  .  .  .  She  thought  of  the 
perfect  set  of  her  white  silk  bridesmaid's  dress, 
its  freshness,  its  clear  apple  green  pipings,  the 
little  green  leaves  and  fresh  pink  cluster  roses  on 
the  white  chip  hat.  If  the  shower  bouquets  did 
not  come  it  would  be  simply  ghastly.  And  every- 
body went  on  chattering. 

She  leaned  anxiously  across  the  table  to 
Harriett. 

"  Oo — what's  up  ?  "  asked  Harriett, 


HONEYCOMB  201 

Conversation  had  dropped.  Miriam  sat  up  to 
fling  out  her  grievances. 

"  Well — just  this.  I'm  told  Gerald  said  the 
people  would  send  a  line  to  say  it  was  all  right, 
and  they  haven't  written,  and  so  far  as  I  can  make 
out  nothing's  been  done." 

'Bouquets  would  appear  to  be  one  of  the 
essentials  of  the  ceremony,"  hooted  Mr.  Hender- 
son. 

"  Well,  of  course,"  retorted  Miriam  savagely, 
'  if  you  have  a  dress  wedding  at  all.  That's  the 
point." 

"  Quite  so,  my  dear,  quite  so.  I  was  unaware 
that  you  were  depending  on  a  message." 

"  I'm  not  anxious.    It's  simply  silly,  that's  all." 

"  It'll  be  all  right,"  suggested  Harriett,  looking 
into  space.    "  They'd  have  written." 

"  Well,  it's  your  old  bouquet  principally." 

"  Me.    With  a  bouquet.    Hoo " 

n 

"  Peace  I  give  unto  you,  My  peace  I  give  unto 
you.  Not  as  the  world  giveth,  give  I  unto 
you— 


j> 


Christ  said  that.    But  peace  came  from  God — 
the  peace  of  God  that  passeth  all  understanding. 


202  HONEYCOMB 

How  could  Christ  give  that  ?  He  put  Himself 
between  God  and  man.  Why  could  not  people 
get  at  God  direct  ?    He  was  somewhere. 

The  steam  was  disappearing  out  of  the  window ; 
the  row  of  objects  ranged  along  the  far  side  of 
the  bath  grew  clear.  Miriam  looked  at  them, 
seeking  escape  from  the  problem — the  upright 
hand-glass,  the  brush  bag  propped  against  it,  the 
small  bottle  of  Jockey  Club,  the  little  pink  box  of 
French  face  powder  .  .  .  perhaps  one  day  she 
would  learn  to  use  powder  without  looking  like  a 
pierrot  .  .  .  how  nice  to  have  a  thick  white 
skin  that  never  changed  and  took  powder  like  a 
soft  bloom.  .  .  . 

But  as  long  as  the  powder  box  were  there  it 
would  be  impossible  to  reach  that  state  of  peace 
and  freedom  that  Thomas  a  Kempis  meant. 
"  To  Miriam,  from  her  friend,  Harriett  A. 
Perne."  Had  Miss  Haddie  found  anything  of  it  ? 
No — she  was  horribly  afraid  of  God  and  turned 
to  Christ  as  a  sort  of  protecting  lover  to  be 
flattered  and  to  lean  upon.  .  .  . 

There  were  so  many  exquisite  and  wise  things 
in  the  book  ;  the  language  was  so  beautiful.  But 
somehow  there  was  a  whining  going  all  through 
it  .  .  .  fretfulness.     Anger  too — "  I  had  rather 


HONEYCOMB  203 

feel  compunction  than  know  the  definition 
thereof."  Why  not  both  ?  He  was  talking  at 
someone  in  that  sentence. 

The  Kingdom  of  Heaven  is  within  you.  But 
even  Christ  went  about  sad,  trying  to  get  people 
to  do  some  sort  of  trick  that  He  said  was  necessary 
before  they  could  find  God — something  to  do 
with  Himself.  There  was  something  wrong  about 
that. 

If  one  were  perfectly  still,  the  sense  of  God 
was  there. 

Supposing  everyone  could  be  got  to  stay  per- 
fectly still,  until  they  died  .  .  .  like  that  woman 
in  the  book  who  was  dying  so  happily  of  starva- 
tion .  .  .  and  then  the  friend  came  fussing  in 
with  soup.  .  .  . 

Things  were  astounding  enough  ;  enough  to 
make  you  die  of  astonishment,  if  you  did  nothing 
at  all.  Being  alive.  If  one  could  realise  that 
clearly  enough,  one  would  die. 

Everything  everyone  did  was  just  a  distraction 
from  astonishment. 

It  could  only  be  done  in  a  convent.  ...  It 
cost  money  to  get  into  a  convent,  except  as  a 
servant.  If  you  were  a  servant  you  could  not 
stay  day  and  night  in  your  cell — watching  the 


204  HONEYCOMB 

light  and  darkness  until  you  died.  .  .  .  Perhaps 
in  women's  convents  they  would  not  let  you 
anyhow. 

Why  did  men  always  have  more  freedom  ?  .  .  . 
His  head  had  a  listening  look.  His  eyes  were 
waiting  desperately,  seeing  nothing  of  the  things 
in  the  world  ...  he  wanted  to  stay  still  until 
the  voice  of  things  grew  so  clear  and  near  that 
one  could  give  a  great  cry  and  fall  dead  ...  a 
long  long  cry.  .  .  .  Your  hot  heart,  all  of  you, 
pouring  out,  getting  free.  Perhaps  that  hap- 
pened to  people  when  they  were  happy.  They 
cried  out  to  each  other  and  were  free — lost  in 
another  person.  Whoso  would  save  his  soul  .  .  . 
but  then  they  grew  strange  and  apart.  .  .  . 
Marriage  was  a  sort  of  inferior  condition  .  .  . 
an  imitation  of  something  else.  .  .  .  Ho-o-zan- 
na-in-the-Hi  .  .  .  i  .  .  .  est  .  .  .  the  top  note 
rang  up  and  stayed  right  up,  in  the  rafters  of  the 
church. 

"  Did  you  ever  notice  how  white  the  insides  of 
your  wrists  are  ?  " 

Why  did  Bob  seem  so  serious  ?  .  .  .  What  a 
bother,  what  a  bother. 

It  is  a  good  thing  to  be  plain  ..."  the 
tragedy   of   beauty ;     woman's   greatest   curse." 


HONEYCOMB  205 

.  .  .  Andromeda  on  a  rock  with  her  hair  blowing 
over  her  face.  .  .  . 

She  was  afraid  to  look  at  the  monster  coming 
out  of  the  sea.  If  she  had  looked  at  it,  it  would 
not  have  dared  to  come  near  her.  Because 
Perseus  looked  and  rescued  her,  she  would  have 
to  be  grateful  to  him  all  her  life  and  smile  and  be 
Mrs.  Perseus.  One  day  they  would  quarrel  and 
he  would  never  think  her  beautiful  again.  .  .  . 

Adam  had  not  faced  the  devil.  He  was  stupid 
first,  and  afterwards  a  coward  and  a  cad  .  .  . 
"  the  divine  curiosity  of  Eve.  .  .  ."  Some 
person  had  said  that.  .  .  .  Perhaps  men  would 
turn  round  one  day  and  see,  what  they  were  like. 
Eve  had  not  been  unkind  to  the  devil ;  only 
Adam  and  God.  All  the  men  in  the  world,  and 
their  God,  ought  to  apologise  to  women.  .  .  . 

To  hold  back  and  keep  free  .  .  .  and  real.  Im- 
possible to  be  real  unless  you  were  quite  free.  .  .  . 
Two  married  in  one  family  was  enough.  Eve 
would  marry,  too. 

But  money. 

The  chair-bed  creaked  as  she  knelt  up  and 
turned  out  the  gas.  "  I  love  you  '  .  .  .  just  a 
quiet  manly  voice  .  .  .  perhaps  one  would  forget 
everything,   all   the   horrors   and  mysteries  .  .  . 


206  HONEYCOMB 

because  there  would  be  somewhere  then  always 
to  be,  to  rest,  and  feel  sure.  If  only  .  .  .  just  to 
sit  hand  in  hand  .  .  .  watching  snowflakes  .  .  . 
to  sit  in  the  lamplight,  quite  quiet. 

Pictures  came  in  the  darkness  .  .  .  lamplit 
rooms,  gardens,  a  presence,  understanding. 

12 

Voices  were  sounding  in  the  next  room.  Some- 
thing being  argued.  A  voice  level  and  reassuring  ; 
going  up  now  and  again  into  a  hateful  amused 
falsetto.  Miriam  refused  to  listen.  She  had 
never  been  so  near  before.  Of  course  they  talked 
in  their  room.  They  had  talked  all  their  lives ; 
an  endless  conversation  ;  he  laying  down  the  law 
...  no  end  to  it  .  .  .  the  movement  of  his 
beard  as  he  spoke,  the  red  lips  shining  through 
the  fair  moustache  .  .  .  splash  baths  and  no 
soap  ;  soap  is  not  a  cleansing  agent  ...  he  had 
a  ruddy  skin  .  .  .  healthy. 

A  tearful,  uncertain  voice.  .  .  . 

"  Don't  mother  .  .  .  don't,  don't  ...  he 
can't  understand.  .  .  .  Come  to  me  !  Come  in 
here.  .  .  .  Well,  well !  .  .  ."  A  loud  clear  tone 
moving  near  the  door,  "  Leave  it  all  to  nature, 
my  dear.   .   .  ." 


HONEYCOMB  207 

They're  talking  about  Sally  and  Harriett.  .  .  . 
He  is  amused  .  .  .  like  when  he  says  "  the  mar- 
riage service  begins  with  '  dearly  beloved '  and 
ends  with  '  amazement.'  .  .  ." 

She  turned  about,  straining  away  from  the 
wall  and  burying  her  head  in  her  pillow.  Some- 
thing seemed  to  shriek  within  her,  throwing  him 
off,  destroying,  flinging  him  away.  Never  again 
anything  but  contempt.  .  .  . 

She  lay  weak  and  shivering  in  the  uncomfort- 
able little  bed.  Her  heart  was  thudding  in  her 
throat  and  in  her  hands  .  .  .  beloved  .  .  .  be- 
loved ...  a  voice,  singing — 

"  So  ear-ly  in  the  mor-ning, 
My  beloved — my  beloved." 

Silence,  darkness  and  silence. 

J3 

Waking  in  the  darkness,  she  heard  the  fluttering 
of  leafage  in  the  garden  and  lay  still  and  cool 
listening  and  smiling.  That  went  on  .  .  . 
flutter,  flutter,  in  the  breeze.  It  was  enough  .  .  . 
and  things  happened,  as  well,  in  the  far  far  off 
things  called  "  days." 


208  HONEYCOMB 

:4 

A  fearful  clamour — bright  sunlight ;  some- 
thing sticking  sideways  through  the  partly  opened 
door — a  tin  trumpet.  It  disappeared  with  a 
flash  as  she  leapt  out  of  bed.  The  idea  of  Harriett 
being  up  first  ! 

Harriett  stood  on  the  landing  in  petticoat  and 
embroidered  camisole,  her  hair  neatly  pinned, 
her  face  glowing  and  fresh. 

"  Gerrup,"  she  said  at  once. 

"  You  up.  You  oughtn't  to  be.  I'm  going  to 
get  your  breakfast.  You  mustn't  dress  your- 
self. ..." 

"  Rot !  You  hurry  up,  old  silly  ;  breakfast's 
nearly  ready." 

She  ran  upstairs  tootling  her  trumpet.  "  Hurry 
up,"  she  said,  from  the  top  of  the  stairs,  with  a 
friendly  grin. 

Miriam  shouted  convivially  and  retired  into 
her  crowded  sunlit  bathroom,  turning  on  both 
bath  taps  so  that  she  might  sing  aloud.  Harriett 
had  made  the  day  strong  .  .  .  silver  bright  and 
clean  and  clear.  Harriett  was  like  a  clear  blade. 
She  splashed  into  the  cold  water  gasping  and 
singing.      Two    o'clock — ages    yet    before    the 


HONEYCOMB  209 

weddings.  There  was  a  smell  of  bacon  frying. 
They  would  all  have  breakfast  together.  She 
could  smile  at  Harriett.  They  had  grown  up 
together  and  could  admit  it,  because  Harriett 
was  going  away.  But  not  for  ages.  She  flew 
through  her  toilet ;  the  little  garden  was  blazing. 
It  was  a  fine  hot  day. 

15 

Bennett  and  Gerald  had  turned  strained  pale 
faces  to  meet  the  brides  as  they  came  up  the  aisle. 
Now,  Bennett's  broad  white  forehead  seemed  to 
give  out  a  radiance.  It  had  been  fearful  to  stand 
behind  Harriett  through  the  service  listening  to 
the  bland  hollow  voice  of  the  vicar  and  the  four 
unfamiliar  low  voices  responding,  and  taking  the 
long  glove  smooth  and  warm  from  Harriett's  hand, 
her  rustling  heavy-scented  bouquet.  At  the  sight 
of  Bennett's  grave  radiant  face  the  fear  deepened 
and  changed.  Marriage  was  a  reality  .  .  . 
fearful,  searching  reality  ;  it  changed  people's 
expressions.  Hard  behind  came  Gerald  and 
Harriett ;  Gerald's  long  face  still  pale,  his  loosely 
knit  figure  carried  along  by  her  tense  little  frame 
as  she  walked,  a  little  firm  straight  figure  of 
satin,  her  veil  thrown  back  from  her  little  snub 


210  HONEYCOMB 

face,  her  face  held  firmly  ;  steady  and  old  with 
its  solid  babyish  curves  and  its  brave  stricken 
eyes :  old  and  stricken  ;  that  was  how  Sarah  had 
looked  too.  No  radiance  on  the  faces  of  Sarah 
and  Harriett. 

The  Wedding  March  was  pealing  out  from  the 
chancel,  a  great  tide  of  sound  blaring  down 
through  the  church  and  echoing  back  from  the 
west  window,  near  the  door  where  they  would  all 
go  out,  in  a  moment,  out  into  the  world.  On 
they  went ;  how  swift  it  all  was.  .  .  .  Sarah 
and  Harriett,  rescued  from  poverty  and  fear  .  .  . 
mother's  wedding  on  a  May  morning  long  ago 
...  in  the  little  village  church  ...  to  walk 
out  of  church  into  the  open  country  ;  in  the 
morning ;  a  bride.  There  were  no  brides  in 
London. 

Now  to  fall  in  behind  Eve  and  Mr.  Tremayne. 
Mr.  Grove  walked  clumsily.  His  arms  brushed 
against  the  shower  bouquet. 

The  upturned  faces  of  the  pink  carnations  were 
fresh  and  sweet ;  for  nothing.  To-morrow  they 
would  be  dead.  Harriett's  bouquet,  dead  too 
...  a  wonderful  dead  bouquet  that  meant  life. 
"  Where  are  you,  my  friend,  my  own  friend  ? ' 


HONEYCOMB  211 

16 

A  wedding  seemed  to  make  everybody  happy. 
The  people  moving  in  Harriett's  new  rooms 
were  happy.  Old  people  were  new  and  young. 
They  laughed.  .  .  .  The  sad  dark  man,  follow- 
ing with  his  tray  of  glasses  as  she  went  from 
guest  to  guest  with  Harriett's  champagne  cup 
had  laughed  again  and  again.  .  .  . 

The  voices  of  the  grey-clad  bridegrooms  rang 
about  the  rooms  full  of  quiet  relieved  laughter. 
The  outlines  of  their  well-cut  grey  clothes  were 
softly  pencilled  with  a  radiance  of  marriage. 
Round  about  Sarah  and  Eve  was  a  great  radiance. 
Light  streamed  from  their  satin  dresses.  But 
they  were  untouched.  Silent  and  untouched  and 
far  away.  What  should  these  strange  men  ever 
know  of  them  ;   coming  and  going  ? 

She  found  herself  standing  elbow  to  elbow 
with  Harriett.  Warm  currents  came  to  her  from 
Harriett's  body  ;  she  moved  her  elbow  against 
Harriett's  to  draw  her  attention.  Harriett 
turned  a  scorched  cheek  and  a  dilated  unseeing 
eye.     Their  hands  dropped  and  met.     Miriam 


212  HONEYCOMB 

felt  the  quivering  of  firm,  strong  fingers  and  the 
warm  metal  of  rings.  She  grasped  the  matronly- 
hand  with  the  whole  strength  of  her  own.  Har- 
riett must  remember  ...  all  this  wedding  was 
nothing.  .  . '.  She  was  Harriett  .  .  .  not  the  Mrs. 
Ducayne  Bob  Greville  had  just  been  talking  to 
about  Curtain  Lectures  and  the  Rascality  of  the 
Genus  Homo  .  .  .  she  must  remember  all  the  years 
of  being  together,  years  of  nights  side  by  side  .  .  . 
night  turning  to  day  for  both  of  them,  at  the 
same  moment.  She  gave  her  hand  a  little  shake. 
Harriett  made  a  little  skipping  movement  and 
grinned  her  own  ironic  grin.  It  was  all  right. 
They  were  quite  alone  and  irreverent ;  they 
two ;  the  festive  crowd  was  playing  a  game  for 
their  amusement.  They  laughed  without  a  sound 
as  they  had  so  often  done  in  church.  The  air 
that  encircled  them  was  the  air  of  their  childhood. 

18 

Gerald's  voice  sounded  near.  It  made  no  break 
in  their  union  though  Harnett  welcomed  it, 
clearing  her  throat  with  a  businesslike  cough. 

"  Time  you  changed,  Mrs.  La  Reine,"  said 
Gerald,  in  a  frightened  friendly  voice. 

Oh,    lor,    is   it  ?  "  .  .  .  that   kindliness   was 


a 


HONEYCOMB  213 

only   in   Harriett's   voice   when   she   had   hurt 
someone. 

.  .  .  The  edge  of  Gerald's  voice,  kind  to  every- 
one, would  always  be  broken  when  he  spoke  to 
Harriett.  She  would  always  be  this  young 
absurd  Harriett  to  him,  always.  He  would  go  on 
fastening  her  boots  for  her  tenderly,  and  go 
happily  about  his  hobbies.  She  would  never 
hear  him  call  her  "  my  dear."  That  old-fashioned 
mock-polite  insolence  of  men  .  .  .  paterfamilias. 

The  four  of  them  were  together  in  a  room 
again,  fastening  and  hooking  and  adjusting ; 
standing  about  before  mirrors.  We've  all 
grown  up  together  ...  we  can  admit  it  now 
.  .  .  we're  admitting  it.  Everything  clear,  back 
to  the  beginning  ;  happy  and  good.  The  room 
was  still  with  the  hush  of  its  fresh  draperies, 
hemming  them  in.  Beautiful  immortal  forms 
moved  in  the  room,  reaping  .  .  .  voices,  steady 
and  secure,  said  nothing  but  the  necessary  things, 
borne  down  with  wealth,  all  the  wealth  there  was 
...  all  the  laughter  and  certainty.  Immor- 
tality. Nothing  could  die.  They  saw  and  knew 
everything.    Each  tone  was  a  confession  and  a 


214  HONEYCOMB 

song  of  truth.  They  need  never  meet  and  speak 
again.  They  had  known.  The  voices  of  Sarah 
and  Harriett  would  go  on  .  .  .  marked  with 
fresh  things.  .  .  .  Her  own  and  Eve's  would 
remain,  separate,  to  grow  broken  and  false  and 
unrecognisable  in  the  awful  struggle  for  money. 
No  matter.  The  low  secure  untroubled  tone 
of  a  woman's  voice.  There  was  nothing  like  it 
on  earth.  ...  If  you  had  once  heard  it  ...  in 
your  own  voice,  and  the  voice  of  another  woman 
responding  .  .  .  everything  was  there. 

20 

Was  there  anyone  who  fully  realised  how 
amazing  it  was  ...  a  human  tone.  Perhaps 
everyone  did,  really,  most  people  without  know- 
ing it.  A  few  knew.  Perhaps  that  was  what  kept 
life  going. 

21 

In  a  few  minutes  they  would  go.  They  avoided 
each  other's  eyes.  Miriam  began  to  be  afraid 
Eve  would  say  something  cheerful,  or  sing  a 
snatch  of  song,  desecrating  the  singing  that  was 
there,  the  deep  eternal  singing  in  each  casual  tone. 

Gerald's  whistle  came  up  from  the  front 
garden. 


HONEYCOMB  215 

Miriam  opened  the  door.  Bennett's  voice 
came  from  the  hall,  calling  for  Sarah. 

"  Your  skirt  sets  simply  perfectly,  Sally."  .  .  . 
Sarah  was  at  the  door  in  her  neat  soft  dark  blue 
travelling  dress,  and  a  soft  blue  straw  hat  with 
striped  ribbon  bands  and  bows,  hurrying  forward} 
her  gold  hair  shining  under  her  hat ;  seeing 
nothing  but  the  open  door  downstairs  and 
Bennett  waiting. 

22 

The  garden  and  pathway  was  thronged  with 
bright-coloured  guests.  Miriam  found  herself 
standing  with  Gerald  on  the  curb,  waiting  for 
Harriett  to  finish  her  farewells.  He  crushed  her 
arm  against  his  side.  "  Good  Lord,  Mirry,  ain't 
I  glad  it's  all  over." 

Sarah  was  stepping  into  the  shelter  of  the  first 
of  the  two  waiting  carriages.  Her  face  was  clear 
with  relief.  Bennett  followed,  dressed  like  her 
in  dark  blue.  On  the  step  he  spoke  abruptly, 
something  about  a  small  portmanteau.  Sarah's 
voice  sounded  from  inside.  Miriam  had  never 
heard  her  speak  with  such  cool  unconcern.  Per- 
haps she  had  never  known  Sarah.  Sarah  was 
herself  now,  for  the  first  time  free  and  uncon- 


216  HONEYCOMB 

cerned.  '  What  freedom.  Cool  and  unconcerned. 
The  door  shut  with  a  bang.  They  had  forgotten 
everyone.  They  were  going  to  forget  to  wave. 
Everyone  had  watched  them.  But  they  did  not 
think  of  that.  They  saw  green  Devonshire  ahead 
and  their  little  house  waiting  in  the  Upper  Rich- 
mond Road  with  work  for  them  both,  work  they 
could  both  do  well,  with  all  their  might  when 
they  came  back.  Someone  shouted.  Rice  was 
being  showered.  People  were  running  down  the 
road  showering  rice.  The  road  and  pathway 
were  bright  with  happy  marriage,  all  the  world 
linked  in  happy  marriages. 

23 

The  second  carriage  swept  round  the  bend  of 
the  road  with  a  yellow  silk  slipper  swinging  in  the 
rear.  Miriam  struggled  for  breath  through  tears. 
Gerald  and  Harriett  had  taken  the  old  life  away 
with  them  in  their  carriage.  Harriett  had  taken 
it,  and  gone.  But  she  knew.  She  would  bring  it 
back  with  her.  They  would  come  back.  Harriett 
would  never  forget.  Nothing  could  change  or 
frighten  her.  She  would  come  back  the  same,  in 
her  new  dresses,  laughing. 

A  fat  voice  .  .  .  Mrs.  Bywater  ..."  proud 


HONEYCOMB  217 

of  your  gails,  Mrs.  Henderson"  ...  fat  flatter- 
ing voice.  The  brightness  had  gone  from  the 
houses  and  the  roadway  .  .  .  unreal  people  were 
moving  about  with  absurd  things  on  their  heads. 
Bridesmaids  in  cold  white  dresses,  moving  in 
pounces,  as  people  spoke  to  them  .  .  .  the 
Hendon  girls.  .  .  .  What  bad  complexions  Har- 
riett's school  friends  had.  Why  were  they  all 
dark  ?  Why  did  Harriett  like  them  ?  Who  was 
Harriett  ?  Why  did  she  have  dark,  sallow 
friends  ?  Oh  .  .  .  this  dark  face,  near  and 
familiar  .  .  .  saying  something — eyes  looking  at 
nothing ;  haunted  eyes  looking  at  nothing,  very 
dear  and  familiar  .  .  .  relief  .  .  .  the  sky  seems 
to  lift  again ;  kind  harmless  bitter  features, 
coming  near  and  speaking. 

"  I    am    obliged    to    go "    rasping    voice, 

curious  sawing  breath.  .  .  . 

"  Oh  yes.  .  .  ."  Perhaps  there  will  be  a 
thunderstorm  or  something — something  will  hap- 
pen. 

"  We  shall  meet  again." 

"  Yes— oh,  yes." 


2i8  HONEYCOMB 

24 

There  was  no  reason  to  feel  nervous,  at  any 
rate  for  a  night  or  two.  Burglars  who  wanted 
the  presents  would  take  some  time  to  find  out 
that  there  was  only  one  young  lady  in  the  house 
and  a  little  servant  sleeping  in  a  top  room.  It 
was  all  right.  No  need  to  put  the  dinner-bell  on 
the  dressing-table.  Next  week  the  middle-aged 
servant  would  have  arrived.  Would  she  mind 
being  alone  with  the  presents  and  the  little  maid  ? 
The  only  way  to  feel  quite  secure  at  night  would 
be  to  marry  .  .  .  how  awful  .  .  .  either  you 
marry  and  are  never  alone  or  you  risk  being  alone 
and  afraid  ...  to  marry  for  safety  .  .  .  per- 
haps some  women  did.  No  wonder  .  .  .  and 
not  to  turn  into  a  silly  scared  nervous  old  maid 
.  .  .  how  tiresome,  one  thing  or  the  other  .  .  . 
no  choice. 

She  laid  her  head  on  the  pillow.  Thank 
Heaven  I'm  here  and  not  at  home  .  .  .  out  of 
it.  .  .  .  "  I'll  come  round,  first  thing,  to  cut  up 
the  cake  " — that  would  be  jolly  too.  But  here 
.  .  .  with  all  these  new  things,  magical  and  easy, 
secure  with  Gerald  and  Harriett,  chosen  to  em- 
bark on  their  new  life  with  them.  ..."  You 


HONEYCOMB  219 

chuck  your  job,  my  dear,  and  stay  with  us  for  a 
bit."  They  would  like  it.  That  was  so  jolly. 
Absurd  free  days  with  Harriett ;  tea  in  the 
garden,  theatres ;  people  coming,  Mr.  Tremayne 
and  Mr.  Grove.  .  .  . 

But  there  was  something,  some  thought  sweep- 
ing round  all  these  things,  something  else,  sweep- 
ing round  outside  the  weddings  and  the  joy  of 
being  at  home,  making  all  these  things  extra,  like 
things  thrown  in,  jolly  and  perfect  and  surprising, 
but  thrown  in  with  something  else  that  was  her 
own,  something  hovering  around  and  above,  in 
and  out  the  whole  day  keeping  her  apart.  This 
morning  the  weddings  had  seemed  the  end  of 
everything.  They  were  over,  Harriett's  and 
Sarah's  lives  going  forward  and  her  own  share  in 
them,  and  home  still  there  too,  three  things 
instead  of  one,  easily  hers.  And  yet  they  did  not 
concern  her.  It  would  be  a  sham  to  pretend  they 
did,  with  this  other  thing  haunting — to  go  on 
from  thing  to  thing,  living  with  people  and  for 
them  as  if  there  were  nothing  else,  as  people 
seemed  to  do,  one  thing  happening  after  another 
all  the  time.    Sham. 

Harriett  and  Sarah  had  rushed  out  into  life. 
They  had  changed  everything.    Things  did  not 


220  HONEYCOMB 

seem  to  matter  now  that  they  had  achieved  all 
that.  Harriett  would  take  the  first  shock  of  life 
for  her.  Curiosities  could  come  to  an  end.  It 
did  not  seem  to  matter.  That  was  all  at  peace, 
through  Harriett.  Life  had  come  into  the  family, 
leaving  her  free.  .  .  . 

Was  she  free  ?  That  strange,  dark  priestliness. 
If  he  called  to  her,  if  he  really  called.  .  .  .  But 
he  called  in  a  dark  dreadful  way  .  .  .  and  yet 
mysteriously  linked  to  something  in  her.  She 
could  not  give  the  help  he  needed.  She  would 
fail.  Over  their  lives  would  shine,  far  away, 
visible  to  both  of  them  the  radiance  of  heaven. 
They  both  wanted  to  be  good  ;  redemption  from 
sin.  They  both  believed  these  things.  But  he 
was  weak,  weak  .  .  .  and  she  not  strong  enough 
to  help.  And  there  was  that  other  thing  beckon- 
ing far  from  this  suburban  life  and  quite  as  far 
from  him,  away,  up  in  London,  down  at  New- 
lands,  a  brightness.  .  .  . 

She  looked  through  the  darkness  at  the  harmony 
of  soft  tones  and  draperies  at  distant  Newlands 
.  .  .  etchings ;  the  strange  effect  of  etchings 
.  .  .  there  were  no  etchings  in  the  suburbs  .  .  . 
curious,  close,  strong  lines  that  rested  you  and 
had  a  meaning  and  expression  even  though  you 


HONEYCOMB  221 

did  not  understand  the  subject.  There  were  so 
many  things  to  take  you  away  from  people.  In 
the  suburbs  people  were  everything,  and  there 
was  nothing  in  them.  They  did  not  understand 
anything ;  but  going  on.  They  were  helpless 
and  without  thoughts ;  amongst  their  furniture. 
They  did  not  even  have  busts  of  Beethoven.  At 
Newlands  people  might  be  dead,  the  women  in 
bright  hard  deaths  or  deaths  of  cold,  cruel 
deceitfulness,  the  men  tiny  insects  of  selfishness, 
but  there  were  things  that  made  up  for  everything 
full  and  satisfying. 

And  Salviati's  window.  .  .  . 

She  must  hold  on  to  these  things.  Life  with- 
out them  would  be  impossible. 

It  was — Style  ...  or  something.  Le  style 
c'est  l'homme.  That  meant  something.  It  was 
the  same  with  clothes.  .  .  .  Suburban  people 
could  be  fashionable,  never  stylish.  And  manners. 
.  .  .  They  were  fussily  kind  and  nice  to  each 
other  ;  as  if  life  were  pitiful  .  .  .  life  .  .  . 
pitiful.    They  all  pitied,  and  despised  each  other. 

25 
The  night  was  vast  with  all  the  other  things. 
No  need  to  sleep.     To  lie  happy  and  strong  in 


222  HONEYCOMB 

the  sense  of  them  was  better  than  sleep.  In  a 
few  hours  the  little  suburban  day  would  come 
.  .  .  everything  gleaming  with  the  light  of  the 
big  things  beyond.  One  could  go  through  it  in 
a  drowse  of  strength,  full  of  laughter  .  .  . 
laughter  to  the  brim,  all  one's  limbs  strong  and 
heavy  with  laughter. 

Bob  Greville  had  gone  jingling  down  the  road 
in  a  hansom — grey  holland  blinds  and  a  pink  rose- 
bud in  the  driver's  buttonhole.  Why  had  he 
come  ?  Going  in  and  out  of  the  weddings  a  pale 
grey  white- spatted  guest,  talking  to  everyone 
...  a  preoccupied  piece  of  the  West  End. 
Large  club  windows  looking  out  on  sunlit 
Piccadilly  ;  a  glimpse  of  the  gaze  of  the  Green 
Park.  Weddings  must  be  laughable  to  him  with 
his  "  Mrs.  Caudle's  Curtain  Lectures "  ideas. 
His  wife  was  dead.  She  had  been  fearfully  ill 
suddenly  on  their  wedding  tour  ...  at  "  Law- 
zanne."  That  was  the  wrong  way  to  pronounce 
Lausanne.  And  that  wrong  way  of  pronouncing 
was  somehow  part  of  his  way  of  thinking  about 
her.  He  seemed  to  remember  nothing  but  her 
getting  ill  and  spoke  with  a  sort  of  laughing, 
contemptuous  jear.    Men. 

But    in    some    way    he    was   connected   with 


HONEYCOMB  223 

that     strange     thing     outside      the      everyday 

things. 

26 

How  stupid  of  Eve  to  be  vexed  because  she 
was  told  there  was  no  need  to  scrawl  the  addresses 
of  the  little  cake  boxes  right  across  the  labels. 
Impossible  now  to  ask  her  to  come  and  play  song 
accompaniments.  Besides,  she  was  tired.  Eve 
was  tired  because  she  did  not  really  know  how 
glorious  life  was.  In  her  life  with  the  Greens  in 
Wiltshire  there  was  nothing  besides  the  Greens 
but  the  beautiful  landscape.  And  the  landscape 
seen  from  the  Greens'  windows  must  look  com- 
mercial, in  the  end.  Eve  was  evidently  beginning 
to  tire  of  it.  And  they  had  worked  so  hard  all 
the  morning  cutting  up  the  cake.  Eve  did  not 
know  that  towards  the  end  of  the  morning  she 
had  thought  of  singing  after  lunch  .  .  .  feeling 
so  strong  and  wanting  to  make  a  noise.  Bohm's 
songs.  It  was  better  really  to  sing  to  one's  own 
accompaniment ;  only  there  was  no  one  to 
listen.  .  .  . 

"  Und  wenn  i  dann  mal  wie-ie-d-er  komm" 

a  German  girl,  her  face  strahlend  mit  Freude — 
radiant  with  joy  .  .  .  but  strahlend   was    more 


224  HONEYCOMB 

than  radiant  .  .  .  streaming  —  like  sunlight  — 
shafts  of  sunlight.  German  women  were  not 
self-conscious.  They  were  full  of  joy  and  sorrow. 
Perhaps  happier  than  any  other  women.  Their 
mountains  and  woods  and  villages  and  towns 
were  beautiful  with  joy.  They  did  not  care  what 
men  thought  or  said.  They  were  happy  in  their 
beautiful  country  in  their  own  way.  Germany 
...  all  washed  with  poetry  and  music  and  song. 
"  Freue  dich  des  Lebens."  Freue  .  .  .  Freue 
dich  .  .  .  the  words  were  like  the  rush  of  wings 
.  .  .  the  flutter  of  a  fresh  skirt  round  happy 
hurrying  feet. 

27 
"  What  a  melancholy  ditty,  chick." 
Miriam  laughed  and  dropped  into  the  accom- 
paniment of  Schubert's  "  Ave  Maria."  "  Listen, 
mother  .  .  .  there  was  a  monk  who  sang  this  so 
beautifully  in  a  church  that  he  had  to  be  stopped." 
She  played  through  the  "  Ave  Maria  "  and  looked 
round.  Mrs.  Henderson  was  sitting  stiffly  in  a 
stiff  straight  chair  with  her  hands  twisted  in  her 
lap.  "  Oh  bother,"  thought  Miriam,  "  she's 
feeling  hysterical  .  .  .  and  it's  my  turn  this 
time.  What  on  earth  shall  I  do  ?  "  The  word 
had  come  up  through  the  years.    Sarah  had  seen 


HONEYCOMB  225 

"  attacks  of  hysteria.  .  .  ."  Was  she  going  to 
have  one  now  .  .  .  laugh  and  cry  and  say  dread- 
ful things  and  then  be  utterly  exhausted  ?  Good 
Lord,  how  fearful.  And  what  was  the  good  ? 
She  "  couldn't  help  it."  That  was  why  you  had 
to  be  firm  with  hysterical  people.  But  there  was 
no  need,  now.  Everything  was  better.  Two  of 
them  married ;  the  boys  ready  to  look  after 
everything.  It  was  simply  irritating  .  .  .  and 
the  sun  just  coming  round  into  the  green  of  the 
conservatory.  .  .  . 

She  sat  impatient,  feeling  young  and  strong 
and  solid  with  joy  on  the  piano  stool.  Couldn't 
mother  see  her,  sitting  there  in  a  sort  of  blaze  of 
happy  strength  ?  She  swung  impatiently  round 
to  the  keyboard  and  glanced  at  the  open  album. 
There  was  silence  in  the  room.  Her  heart  beat 
anxiously  .  .  .  some  German  printer  had  printed 
those  notes  ...  in  pain  and  illness  perhaps — 
but  pain  and  illness  in  Germany,  not  in  this 
dreadful  little  room  where  despair  was  shut  in. 
..."  Comus,"  "  The  Seven  Ages  of  Man," 
"  The  Arctic  Regions,"  beautiful  bindings  on 
the  little  old  inlaid  table,  things  belonging  to 
those  sunny  beginnings  and  ending  with  that 
awful  agonised  figure  sitting  there  silent.     She 


226  HONEYCOMB 

cleared  her  throat  and  stretched  a  hand  out  over 
the  notes  of  a  chord  without  striking  it.  Some- 
thing was  gaining  on  her.  Something  awful  and 
horrible. 

"  Play  something  cheerful,  chickie,"  said  her 
mother,  in  a  dreadful  deep  trembling  voice. 
Suddenly  Miriam  knew,  in  horror,  that  the 
voice  wanted  to  scream,  to  bellow.  Bellow  .  .  . 
that  huge,  tall  woman  striding  about  on  the 
common  at  Worthing  .  .  .  bellowing  .  .  .  mad 
— madness.  She  summoned,  desperately,  some- 
thing in  herself,  and  played  a  thing  she  disliked, 
wondering  why  she  chose  it.  Her  hands  played 
carefully,  holding  to  the  rhythm,  carefully 
avoiding  pressure  and  emphasis.  Nothing  could 
happen  as  long  as  she  could  keep  on  playing  like 
that.  It  made  the  music  seem  like  a  third  person 
in  the  room.  It  was  a  new  way  of  playing.  She 
would  try  it  again  when  she  was  alone.  It  made 
the  piece  wonderful  .  .  .  traceries  of  tone  shap- 
ing themselves  one  after  another,  intertwining, 
and  stopping  against  the  air  .  .  .  tendrils  on  a 
sunlit  wall.  .  .  .  She  had  a  clear  conviction  of 
manhood  .  .  .  that  strange  hard  feeling  that 
was  always  twining  between  her  and  the  things 
people  wanted  her  to  do  and  to  be.     Manhood 


HONEYCOMB  227 

* 

with  something  behind  it  that  understood.  This 
time  it  was  welcome.  It  served.  She  asserted  it, 
sadly  feeling  it  mould  the  lines  of  her  face. 

28 

The  end  of  the  piece  was  swift  and  tuneful 
and  stormy,  the  only  part  she  had  cared  for 
hitherto.  For  a  moment  she  was  tempted  to 
dash  into  it  .  .  .  her  hands  were  so  able  and 
strong,  so  near  to  mastery  of  the  piano  after  that 
curious  careful  playing.  But  it  would  be  cruel. 
She  passed  on  to  the  final  chords — broad  and  even 
and  simple.  They  suggested  quiet  music  going 
on,  playing  itself  in  the  room.  Getting  up  beam- 
ing and  shy  and  embarrassed  she  did  not  dare  to 
look  at  the  waiting  figure,  and  looked  busily  into 
the  dark  interiors  of  the  bowls  and  vases  along  the 
mantelpiece.  .  .  .  There  was  something  in  the 
waiting  figure  that  did  not  want  to  scream. 
Something  exactly  like  herself.  ...  At  the 
bottom  of  one  of  the  deep  bowls  was  a  curling- 
pin.     She  giggled,  catching  her  breath. 

Mrs.  Henderson  glanced  up  at  her  and  looked 
away,  looking  about  the  room.  That's  naughty, 
thought  Miriam.  She's  not  trying  ;  she's  being 
naughty  and  tiresome.    Perhaps  she's  angry  with 


228  HONEYCOMB 

me,  and  thinks  I  mean  she  must  just  go  on  endur- 
ing. 

"  I  can't  correct  a  misprint  with  a  curling-pin." 

Mother  believed  in  the  misprint.  .  .  .  Talk 
on  about  misprints  .  .  .  why  was  it  necessary  to 
be  insincere  if  one  wanted  to  make  anything 
happen  ?  But  anything  was  better  than  saying, 
What  is  the  matter  ?  That  would  be  just  as  in- 
sincere, and  impudent  too. 

"  These  cheap  things  are  always  so  badly 
printed." 

"  Oh  !  "  .  .  .  Mother's  polite  tone,  trying  to 
be  interested.  That  was  all  she'd  had  for  years. 
All  she'd  ever  had,  from  him.  Miriam  sat  down 
conversationally,  in  a  long  chair.  She  felt  a  numb 
sleepiness  coming  over  her,  and  stretched  all  her 
muscles  lazily,  to  their  full  limit  .  .  .  mother, 
just  mother  in  the  room,  perfect  ease  and  security 
.  .  .  and  relaxed  with  a  long  yawn,  feeling 
serenely  awake.  The  little  figure  ceased  to  be 
horrible. 

"  My  life  has  been  so  useless,"  said  Mrs. 
Henderson  suddenly. 

Here  it  was  ...  a  jolt  ...  an  awful  physi- 
cal shock,  jarring  her  body.  .  .  .  She  braced 
herself    and    spoke    quickly    and    blindly  ...  a 


HONEYCOMB  229 

network  of  feeling  vibrated  all  over  to  and  fro, 
painfully. 

"  It  only  seems  so  to  you,"  she  said,  in  a  voice 
muffled  by  the  beating  of  her  heart.  Anything 
might  happen — she  had  no  power.  .  .  .  Mother 
— almost  killed  by  things  she  could  not  control, 
having  done  her  duty  all  her  life  .  .  ♦  doing 
thing  after  thing  had  not  satisfied  her  .  .  . 
being  happy  and  brave  had  not  satisfied  her. 
There  was  something  she  had  always  wanted, 
for  herself  .  .  .  even  mother.  .  .  . 

Mrs.  Henderson  shuddered  and  sighed.  Her 
pose  relaxed  a  little. 

"  I  might  have  done  something  for  the  poor." 

"  Oh,  yes  ?  What  things  ?  "  She  had  lived 
in  a  nightmare  of  ways  and  means,  helpless.  .  .  . 

"  I  might  have  made  clothes,  sometimes.  .  .  ." 

"  That  worries  you,  so  that  you  can  hardly 
bear  it." 

"  Yes." 

"  It  needn't.  I  don't  mean  the  poor  need  not 
be  helped.     But  you  needn't  have  that  feeling." 

"  You  understand  it  ?  " 

"  I  feel  it  this  moment,  as  you  feel  it." 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  You  needn't." 


230  HONEYCOMB 

Miriam  held  back  her  thoughts.  Nothing 
mattered  but  to  sit  there  holding  back  thought 
and  feeling  and  argument,  if  only  she  could 
without  getting  angry.  .  .  .  There  was  something 
here,  something  decisive.  This  was  what  she 
had  been  born  for,  if  only  she  could  hold  on. 
She  felt  very  old.  No  more  happiness  .  .  .  the 
little  house  they  sat  in  was  a  mockery,  a  fiendish 
contrivance  to  hide  agony.  There  was  nothing 
in  these  little  houses  in  themselves,  just  indiffer- 
ence hiding  miseries. 

She  sat  forward  conversationally.  A  rain  of 
tears  was  coming  down  her  companion's  cheeks. 
To  hold  on  .  .  .  hold  on  .  .  .  not  to  think  or 
feel  glad  or  sorry  ...  it  would  be  impudent  to 
feel  anything  ...  to  hold  on  if  the  tears  went 
on  for  an  hour  .  .  .  treating  them  as  if  they  were 
part  of  a  conversation. 

"  You  understand  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

"  You  are  the  only  one." 

The  relieved  voice  .  .  .  steady,  as  she  had 
known  it  correcting  her  in  her  babyhood. 

"  I  should  be  better  if  I  could  be  more  with 
you  .  .  ."  oh  Lord  .  .  .  impossible. 

"  You  must  be  with  me  as  much  as  you  like." 


HONEYCOMB  231 

That  was  the  thing.  That  was  what  must  be 
done  somehow. 

"  Mother  !  would  you  mind  if  I  smoked  a 
cigarette  ?  " 

It  was  suddenly  possible,  the  unheard-of  un- 
confessed  .  .  .  suddenly  easy  and  possible. 

"  My  dearest  child  !  "  Mrs.  Henderson's 
flushed  face  crimsoned  unresistingly.  She  was 
shocked  and  ashamed  and  half  delighted.  Miriam 
gazed  boldly,  admiring  and  adoring.  She  felt 
she  had  embarked  on  her  first  real  flirtation  and 
blessed  the  impulse  that  had  that  morning 
transferred  cigarettes  and  matches  from  her 
handbag  to  her  hanging  pocket  as  a  protection 
against  suburban  influence  and  a  foretaste  of  her 
appointment  with  Bob.  She  lit  a  cigarette  with 
downcast  lids  and  a  wicked  smile,  throwing  a 
triumphant  possessive  glance  at  her  mother  as  it 
drew.  The  cigarette  was  divine.  It  was  divine 
to  smoke  like  this,  countenanced  and  beloved — 
scandalous  and  beloved. 

29 

Miriam  ran  all  the  way  to  the  station.  The 
gardens  on  either  side  of  Gipsy  Lane  were  full  of 
flowering  shrubs  massed  up  against  laburnum  and 


232  HONEYCOMB 

may  trees  in  flower  .  .  .  fresh  clean  colours, 
pink  and  lilac  and  yellow  and  everywhere  new 
bright  fresh  green  .  .  .  May.  She  flung  herself 
into  an  empty  carriage  of  the  three  o'clock 
Vauxhall  and  Waterloo  train,  her  eyes  filled  with 
the  maze  of  garden  freshness  and  was  carried  off 
along  the  edge  of  the  common,  streaming  blazing 
green  in  the  full  sunlight,  dotted  with  gorse. 
Bob  would  not  have  to  wait  at  Waterloo.  .  .  . 
Further  down  the  line,  towards  Kew,  was  the 
mile  of  orchards,  close  on  either  side  of  the  line, 
thick  with  bloom.  .  .  .  Walls  and  houses  began 
to  appear.  She  took  her  eyes  from  the  window 
and  the  gardens  and  the  common  and  the 
imagined  orchards  passed  before  her  eyes  in  the 
dusty  enclosure.  As  she  gazed  they  seemed  to 
pass  through  her,  the  freshness  of  the  blossoms 
backed  by  fresh  greenery  was  a  feeling,  cool  and 
fresh  in  her  blood.  The  growing  intensity  of 
this  feeling  stirred  her  to  movement  and  con- 
sciousness of  the  dust-filmed  carriage,  the  smell 
of  dust.  Still  again,  the  sight  of  the  spring 
flowing  from  her  eyes,  into  them,  out  through 
them,  breathing  with  her  breath,  the  feeling  of 
spring  in  the  soft  beating  from  head  to  foot  of 
her  blood,  was  all  there  was  anywhere  out  to 


HONEYCOMB  233 

the  limits  of  space.  The  dusty  carriage  was  a 
speck  in  the  great  fresh  tide,  and  the  vision  of 
Eve  drifting  in  the  carriage,  in  the  corner, 
opposite,  with  pale  frightened  face,  saying  the 
things  she  had  said  just  now,  was  no  longer 
terrifying,  though  each  thing  she  said  came 
clearly,  a  separate  digging  blow. 

..."  Dr.  Ryman  is  giving  her  bromide  .  .  . 
she  can't  sleep  without  it."  Sleeplessness,  in- 
somnia .  .  .  she  can't  see  the  spring  .  .  .  why 
not ;    and  forget  about  herself. 

"  It's  nerves.  He  says  we  must  behave  as  if 
there  was  nothing  wrong  with  her.  There  is 
nothing  wrong  but  nerves." 

That  fevered  frame,  the  burning  hands  and 
burning  eyes  looking  at  everything  in  the  wrong 
way,  the  brain  seeking  about,  thinking  first  this 
and  then  that  .  .  .  nerves ;  and  fat  Dr.  Ryman 
giving  bromide  .  .  .  awful  little  bottles  of  bro- 
mide coming  to  the  house  wrapped  up  in  white 
paper.  And  everyone  satisfied.  "  She's  in  Dr. 
Ryman's  hands.  Dr.  Ryman  is  treating  her." 
Mrs.  Poole  said  Dr.  Ryman  was  a  very  able  man. 
What  did  she  mean  ?  How  did  she  know  ? 
Suburban  faces ;  satisfied.  "  In  the  doctor's 
hands."    A  large  square  house,  a  square  garden, 


234  HONEYCOMB 

high  walls,  a  delicate  wife  always  being  ill,  always 
going  to  that  place  in  Germany — how  did  he 
know,  going  about  in  a  brougham — and  he  had 
gout  .  .  .  how  did  he  know  more  than  anyone 
else?  .  .  .  bottles  of  bromide,  visits,  bills,  and 
mother  going  patiently  on,  trusting  and  feeling 
unhelped.  Going  on.  People  went  .  .  .  mad. 
If  she  could  not  sleep  she  would  go  .  .  .  mad. 
.  .  .  And  everyone  behaving  as  if  nothing  were 
wrong. 

And  the  vicar  !  Praying  in  the  dining-room. 
Sarah  had  heard.  .  .  .  The  vicar,  kneeling  on 
the  Turkey  carpet  .  .  .  praying.  Couldn't  God 
see  her,  on  the  carpet,  praying  and  trying  ?  And 
the  vicar  went  away.  And  things  were  the  same 
and  that  night  she  would  not  sleep,  just  the  same. 
Of  course  not.  Nothing  was  changed.  It  was 
all  going  on  for  her  in  some  hot  wrong,  shut-up 
way.     Bromide  and  prayers. 

30 

And  she  blamed  herself.  If  only  she  would  not 
blame  herself.  "  He's  one  in  a  thousand  ...  if 
only  I  could  be  as  calm  and  cool  as  he  is."  Why 
not  be  calm  and  cool  ?  She  had  gone  too  far  .  .  . 
"  the  end  of  my  tether  "...  mother,  a  clever 


HONEYCOMB  235 

phrase  like  that,  where  had  she  got  it  ?  It  was 
true.  Her  suffering  had  taught  her  to  find  that 
awful  phrase.  She  feared  her  room,  "  loathed  " 
it.  She,  always  gently  scolding  exaggeration, 
used  and  meant  that  violent  word 

Money.  That  was  why  nothing  had  been  done. 
"  The  doctor  "  had  to  be  afforded  as  she  was  so 
ill,  but  nothing  had  been  done.  Borrow  from 
the  boys  to  take  her  away.  "  A  bright  place  and 
a  cool  breeze."  She  dreamed  of  things — far- 
away impossible  things.  Had  she  told  the  others 
she  wanted  them  ?  They  must  be  told.  To- 
morrow she  should  know  she  was  going  away. 
Nothing  else  in  life  mattered.  Someone  must 
pay,  anyone.  Newlands  must  go.  To-morrow 
and  every  day  till  they  went  away  she  should 
come  round  to  Harriett's  new  house.  Something 
for  her  to  do  every  day. 

The  little  bonneted  figure  .  .  .  happy, 
shocked,  smiling.  To  go  about  with  her,  telling 
her  everything,  dreadful  things.  The  two  of 
them  going  about  and  talking  and  not  talking, 
and  going  about. 


236  HONEYCOMB 

32 

Miriam  moved  uneasily  to  the  mantelpiece. 
An  unlit  fire  was  laid  neatly  in  the  grate.  A  ray 
of  sunlight  struck  the  black  bars  of  the  grate  ; 
false  uneasy  sunlight.  Two  strange  round- 
bowled  long-necked  vases  stood  on  the  mantel- 
piece amongst  the  litter  of  Bob's  belongings. 
Dull  blue  and  green  enamellings  moving  on  a 
dark  almost  black  background  .  .  .  strange  fine 
little  threads  of  gold.  .  .„ .  She  peered  at  them. 

"  My  dear  girl,  do  you  like  my  vases  ?  "  Bob 
came  and  stood  at  her  side. 

"  Yes — they're  funny  and  queer.    I  like  them." 

"  They're  clawzonny — Japanese  clawzonny." 
He  took  one  of  them  up  and  tapped  it  with  his 
nail.  It  gave  out  a  curious  dull  metallic  ring. 
Miriam  passed  her  finger  over  the  enamelled 
surface.  It  was  softly  smooth  and  with  no  chill 
about  it ;  as  if  the  enamel  were  alive.  She  mar- 
velled at  the  workmanship,  wondering  how  the 
gold  wires  were  introduced.  They  gleamed, 
veining  over  the  curves  of  the  vase. 

Her  uneasiness  had  gone.  While  they  were 
looking  at  the  vases  it  did  not  seem  to  matter 
that  she  had  consented,  defying  the  whole  world, 


HONEYCOMB  237 

to  come  and  see  Bob's  bachelor  chambers.  She 
did  not  like  them  and  wanted  to  be  gone.  The 
curious  dingy  dustiness  oppressed  her,  and  there 
was  an  emptiness.  Fancy  having  breakfast  in  a 
room  like  this.  Who  looked  after  a  man's  wash- 
ing when  he  lived  alone  ?  There  must  be  some 
dreadful  sort  of  charwoman  who  came,  and  Bob 
had  to  speak  kindly  to  her  in  his  weary  old  voice 
and  go  on  day  after  day  being  here.  But  the 
vases  stood  there  alive  and  beautiful  and  he  liked 
them.  She  turned  to  see  his  liking  in  his  face. 
As  she  turned  his  arm  came  round  her  shoulders 
and  the  angle  of  his  shoulder  softly  touched  her 
head.  Behind  her  head  there  was  a  point  of 
perfect  rest ;  comfort,  perfect.  Australia ;  a 
young  man  in  shirt-sleeves,  toiling  and  dreaming. 
Was  that  there  still  in  his  face  ? 

"  Are  you  happy,  dear  girl  ?  Do  you  like  being 
with  old  Bob  in  his  den  ?  " 

He  came  nearer  and  spoke  with  a  .soft  husky 
whisper. 

"  Let  me  go,"  said  Miriam  wearily,  longing  to 
rest,  longing  for  the  stairs  they  had  come  up  and 
the  open  street  in  the  sunshine  and  freedom. 

She  moved  away  and  gathered  up  her  gloves 
and  scarf. 


CHAPTER  XI 

i 

MIRIAM  sat  with  her  mother  near  the 
bandstand.  They  faced  the  length  of 
the  esplanade  with  the  row  of  houses  that  held 
their  lodging  to  their  right  and  the  sea  away  to 
the  left.  She  had  found  that  it  was  better  to 
sit  facing  a  moving  vista  ;  forms  passing  by  too 
near  to  be  looked  at  and  people  moving  in  the 
distance  too  far  away  to  suggest  anything.  The 
bandstand  had  filled.  The  town-clock  struck 
eleven.  Presently  the  band  would  begin  to  play. 
Any  minute  now.  It  had  begun.  The  intro- 
duction to  its  dreamiest  waltz  was  murmuring 
in  a  conversational  undertone.  The  stare  of  the 
esplanade  rippled  and  broke.  The  idling  visitors 
became  vivid  blottings.  The  house-rows  stood 
out  in  lines  and  angles.  The  short  solemn 
symphony  was  over.  Full  and  soft  and  ripe  the 
euphonium  began  the  beat  of  the  waltz.  It  beat 
gently  within  the  wooden  kiosk.  The  fluted 
melody  went  out  across  the  sea.    The  sparkling 

238 


HONEYCOMB  239 

ripples  rocked  gently  against  the  melody.  A 
rousing  theme  would  have  been  more  welcome 
to  the  suffering  at  her  side.  She  waited  for  the 
loud  gay  jerky  tripping  of  the  second  movement. 
When  it  crashed  brassily  out  the  scene  grew  vivid. 
The  air  seemed  to  move ;  freshness  of  air  and 
sea  coming  from  the  busy  noise  of  the  kiosk.  The 
restless  fingers  ceased  straying  and  plucking.  The 
suffering  had  shifted.  The  night  was  over. 
When  the  waltz  was  over  they  would  be  able  to 
talk  a  little.  There  would  be  something  .  .  . 
a  goat-chaise  ;  a  pug  with  a  solemn  injured  face. 
Until  the  waltz  came  to  an  end  she  turned 
towards  the  sea,  wandering  out  over  the  gleaming 
ripples,  hearing  their  soft  sound,  snuffing  fresh- 
ness, seeing  the  water  just  below  her  eyes,  trans- 
parent green  and  blue  and  mauve,  salt-filmed. 

2 

The  big  old  woman's  voice  grated  on  about 
Poole's  Miriorama.  She  had  been  a  seven-mile 
walk  before  lunch  and  meant  to  go  to  Poole's 
Miriorama.  She  knew  everything  there  was  in  it 
and  went  to  it  every  summer  and  for  long  walks 
and  washed  lace  in  her  room  and  borrowed  an 
iron  from  Miss  Meldrum.    No  one  listened  and 


240  HONEYCOMB 

her  deep  voice  drowned  all  the  sounds  at  the 
table.  She  only  stopped  at  the  beginning  of  a 
mouthful  or  to  clear  her  throat  with  a  long  harsh 
grating  sound.  She  did  not  know  that  there  was 
nothing  wonderful  about  Poole's  Miriorama  or 
about  walking  every  morning  to  the  end  of  the 
parade  and  back.  She  did  not  know  that  there 
were  wonderful  things.  She  was  like  her  father 
.  .  .  she  was  mad.  Miss  Meldrum  listened  and 
answered  without  attending.  The  other  people 
sat  politely  round  the  table  and  passed  things 
with  a  great  deal  of  stiff  politeness.  One  or  two 
of  them  talked  suddenly,  with  raised  voices.  The 
others  exclaimed.  They  were  all  in  agreement  .  .  . 
"  a  young  woman  with  a  baritone  voice  "... 
a  frog,  white,  keeping  alive  in  coal  for  hundreds 
of  years  .  .  .  my  cousin  has  crossed  the  Atlantic 
six  times.  .  .  .  Nothing  of  any  kind  would  ever 
stop  them.  They  would  never  wait  to  know 
they  were  alive.  They  were  mad.  They  would 
die  mad.  Of  diseases  with  names.  Even  Miss 
Meldrum  did  not  quite  know.  When  she  talked 
she  was  as  mad  as  they  were.  When  she  was  alone 
in  her  room  and  not  thinking  about  ways  and 
means  she  read  books  of  devotion  and  cried.  If 
she  had  had  a  home  and  a  family  she  would  have 


HONEYCOMB  241 

urged  her  sons  and  daughters  to  get  on  and  beat 
other  people.  .  .  .  But  she  knew  mother  was 
different.  All  of  them  knew  it  in  some  way. 
They  spoke  to  her  now  and  again  with  deference, 
their  faces  flickering  with  beauty.  They  knew 
she  was  beautiful.  Sunny  and  sweet  and  good, 
sitting  there  in  her  faded  dress,  her  face  shining 
with  exhaustion. 

3 

They  walked  down  the  length  of  the  pier 
through  the  stiff  breeze  arm  in  arm.  The 
pavilion  was  gaslit,  ready  for  the  entertainment. 

"  Would  you  rather  stay  outside  this  after- 
noon ?  " 

"  No.     Perhaps  the  entertainment  may  cheer 


me." 


There  was  a  pink  paper  with  their  tickets — 
"  The  South  Coast  Entertainment  Company  " 
.  .  .  that  was  better  than  the  usual  concert. 
The  inside  of  the  pavilion  was  like  the  lunch 
table  .  .  .  the  same  people.  But  there  was  a 
yellow  curtain  across  the  platform.  Mother 
could  look  at  that.  It  was  quite  near  them.  It 
would  take  off  the  effect  of  the  audience  of 
people  she  envied.  The  cool  sound  of  the  waves 
flumping  and  washing  against  the  pier  came  in 


242  HONEYCOMB 

through  the  open  doors  with  a  hollow  echo.  They 
were  settled  and  safe  for  the  afternoon.  For  two 
hours  there  would  be  nothing  but  the  things 
behind  the  curtain.  Then  there  would  be  tea. 
Mother  had  felt  the  yellow  curtain.  She  was 
holding  the  pink  programme  at  a  distance  trying 
to  read  it.  Miriam  glanced.  The  sight  of  the 
cheap  black  printing  on  the  thin  pink  paper 
threatened  the  spell  of  the  yellow  curtain.  She 
must  manage  to  avoid  reading  it.  She  crossed 
her  knees  and  stared  at  the  curtain,  yawning  and 
scolding  with  an  affected  manliness  about  the 
forgotten  spectacles.  They  squabbled  and 
laughed.  The  flump-wash  of  the  waves  had  a 
cheerful  sunlit  sound.  Mrs.  Henderson  made  a 
brisk  little  movement  of  settling  herself  to  attend. 
The  doors  were  being  closed.  The  sound  of  the 
waves  was  muffled.  They  were  beating  and  wash- 
ing outside  in  the  sunlight.  The  gaslit  interior 
was  a  pier  pavilion.  It  was  like  the  inside  of  a 
bathing-machine,  gloomy,  cool,  sodden  with  sea- 
damp,  a  happy  caravan.  Outside  was  the  blaze  of 
the  open  day,  pale  and  blinding.  When  they  went 
out  into  it  it  would  be  a  bright  unlimited  jewel, 
getting  brighter  and  brighter,  all  its  colours 
fresher  and  deeper  until  it  turned  to  clear  deep 


HONEYCOMB  243 

live  opal  and  softened  down  and  down  to  dark- 
ness dotted  with  little  pinlike  jewellings  of  light 
along  the  esplanade  ;  the  dark  luminous  waves 
washing  against  the  black  beach  until  dawn.  .  .  . 
The  curtain  was  drawing  away  from  a  spring 
scene  .  .  .  the  fresh  green  of  trees  feathered  up 
into  a  blue  sky.  There  were  boughs  of  apple- 
blossom.  Bright  green  grass  sprouted  along  the 
edge  of  a  pathway.  A  woman  floundered  in  from 
the  side  in  a  pink  silk  evening  dress.  She  stood  in 
the  centre  of  the  scene  preparing  to  sing,  rearing 
her  gold-wigged  head  and  smiling  at  the  audience. 
Perhaps  the  players  were  not  ready.  It  was  a  solo. 
She  would  get  through  it  and  then  the  play  would 
begin.  She  smiled  promisingly.  She  had  bright 
large  teeth  and  the  kind  of  mouth  that  would  say 
chahld  for  child.  The  orchestra  played  a  few  bars. 
She  took  a  deep  breath.  "  Bring  back — the  yahs 
— that  are — DEAD  !  " — she  screamed  violently. 

She  was  followed  by  two  men  in  shabby  tennis 
flannels  wich  little  hard  glazed  tarpaulin  hats 
who  asked  each  other  riddles.  Their  jerky  broken 
voices  fell  into  cold  space  and  echoed  about  the 
shabby  pavilion.  The  scattered  audience  sat  silent 
and  still,  listening  for  the  voices  .  .  .  cabmen 
wrangling  in  a  gutter.     The  green  scene  stared 


244  HONEYCOMB 

stiffly — harsh  cardboard,  thin  harsh  paint.  The 
imagined  scene  moving  and  flowing  in  front  of  it 
was  going  on  somewhere  out  in  the  world.  The 
muffled  waves  sounded  near  and  clear.  The 
sunlight  was  dancing  on  them.  When  the  men 
had  scrambled  away  and  the  applause  had  died 
down,  the  sound  of  the  waves  brought  dancing 
gliding  figures  across  the  stage,  waving  balancing 
arms  and  unconscious  feet  gliding  and  dreaming. 
A  man  was  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  plat- 
form with  a  roll  of  music — bald-headed  and 
grave  and  important.  The  orchestra  played  the 
overture  to  "  The  Harbour  Bar."  But  whilst 
he  unrolled  his  music  and  cleared  his  throat  his 
angry  voice  filled  the  pavilion :  "  it's  all  your  own 
fault  .  .  .  you  get  talking  and  gossiping  and 
filling  yer  head  with  a  lot  of  nonsense  .  .  .  now 
you  needn't  begin  it  all  over  again  twisting  and 
turning  everything  I  say."  And  no  sound  in  the 
room  but  the  sound  of  eating.  His  singing  was 
pompous  anger,  appetite.  Shame  shone  from  his 
rim  of  hair.  He  was  ashamed,  but  did  not  know 
that  he  showed  it. 

4 
They  could  always  walk  home  along  the  smooth 
grey  warm  esplanade  to  tea  in  an  easy  silence. 


HONEYCOMB  245 

The  light  blossoming  from  the  horizon  behind 
them  was  enough.  Everything  ahead  dreamed 
in -it,  at  peace.  Visitors  were  streaming  home- 
wards along  the  parade  lit  like  flowers.  Along 
the  edge  of  the  tide  the  town  children  were 
paddling  and  shouting.  After  tea  they  would 
come  out  into  the  sheltering  twilight  at  peace, 
and  stroll  up  and  down  until  it  was  time  to  go  to 
the  flying  performance  of  The  Pawnbroker's 
Daughter. 

5 
They  were  late  for  tea  and  had  it  by  them- 
selves at  a  table  in  the  window  of  the  little 
smoking-room  looking  out  on  the  garden.  Miss 
Meldrum  called  cheerily  down  through  the 
house  to  tell  them  when  they  came  in.  They 
went  into  the  little  unknown  room  and  the  cook 
brought  up  a  small  silver  tea-pot  and  a  bright 
cosy.  Outside  was  the  stretch  of  lawn  where  the 
group  had  been  taken  in  the  morning  a  year  ago. 
It  had  been  a  sea-side  town  lawn,  shabby  and 
brown,  with  the  town  behind  it ;  unnoticed 
because  the  fresh  open  sea  and  sky  were  waiting 
on  the  other  side  of  the  house  .  .  .  seaside  town 
gardens  were  not  gardens  .  .  .  the  small  squares 
of  greenery  were  helpless  against  the  bright  sea 


246  HONEYCOMB 

.  .  .  and  even  against  shabby  rooms,  when  the  sun 
came  into  the  rooms  oft"  the  sea  .  .  .  sea-rooms. 
.  .  .  The  little  smoking-room  was  screened  by 
the  shade  of  a  tree  against  whose  solid  trunk  half 
of  the  French  window  was  thrown  back. 

When  the  cook  shut  the  door  of  the  little  room 
the  house  disappeared.  The  front  rooms  bathed 
in  bright  light  and  hot  with  the  afternoon  heat, 
the  wide  afterglow  along  the  front,  the  vast  open 
lid  of  the  sky,  were  in  another  world.  .  .  . 
Miriam  pushed  back  the  other  half  of  the 
window  and  they  sat  down  in  a  green  twilight  on 
the  edge  of  the  garden.  If  others  had  been  there 
Mrs.  Henderson  would  have  remarked  on  the 
pleasantness  of  the  situation  and  tried  to  respond 
to  it  and  been  dreadfully  downcast  at  her  failure 
and  brave.  Miriam  held  her  breath  as  they 
settled  themselves.  No  remark  came.  The 
secret  was  safe.  When  she  lifted  the  cosy  the 
little  tea-pot  shone  silver-white  in  the  strange 
light.  A  thick  grey  screen  of  sky  must  be  there, 
above  the  trees,  for  the  garden  was  an  intensity  of 
deep  brilliance,  deep  bright  green  and  calceo- 
larias and  geraniums  and  lobelias,  shining  in  a 
brilliant  gloom.  It  was  not  a  seaside  garden  .  .  . 
it   was   a   garden  ...  all  gardens.     They   took 


HONEYCOMB  247 

their  meal  quietly  and  slowly,  speaking  in  low 
tones.  The  silent  motionless  brilliance  was  a 
guest  at  their  feast.  The  meal-time,  so  terrible 
in  the  hopelessness  of  home,  such  an  effort  in  the 
mocking  glare  of  the  boarding-house  was  a  great 
adventure.  Mrs.  Henderson  ate  almost  half  as 
much  as  Miriam,  serenely.  Miriam  felt  that  a 
new  world  might  be  opening. 

6 

"  The  storm  has  cleared  the  air  wonderfully." 

"  Yes ;   isn't  it  a  blessing." 

"  Perhaps  I  shan't  want  the  beef-tea  to- 
night." Miriam  hung  up  her  dress  in  the 
cupboard,  listening  to  the  serene  tone.  The 
dreadful  candle  was  flickering  in  the  night- 
filled  room,  but  mother  was  quietly  making  a 
supreme  effort. 

"  I  don't  expect  you  will  "  ;  she  said  casually 
from  the  cupboard,  "  it's  ready  if  you  should 
want  it.    But  you  won't  want  it." 

"  It  is  jolly  and  fresh,"  she  said  a  moment  later 
from  the  window,  holding  back  the  blind. 
Perhaps  in  a  few  days  it  would  be  the  real  jolly 
seaside  and  she  would  be  young  again,  staying 
there    alone   with    mother,    just    ridiculous    and 


248  HONEYCOMB 

absurd  and  frantically  happy,  mother  getting 
better  and  better,  turning  into  the  fat  happy 
little  thing  she  ought  to  be,  and  they  would  get 
to  know  people  and  mother  would  have  to  look 
after  her  and  love  her  high  spirits  and  admire  and 
scold  her  and  be  shocked  as  she  used  to  be.  They 
might  even  bathe.  It  would  be  heavenly  to  be 
really  at  the  seaside  with  just  mother.  They 
would  be  idiotic. 

Mrs.  Henderson  lay  very  still  as  Miriam  painted 
the  acid  above  the  unseen  nerve  centres  and 
composed  herself  afterwards  quietly  without 
speaking.  The  air  was  fresh  in  the  room.  The 
fumes  of  the  acid  did  not  seem  so  dreadful 
to-night. 

The  Pawnbroker's  daughter  was  with  them  in 
the  room,  cheering  them.  The  gay  young  man 
had  found  out  somehow  through  her  that  "  good- 
ness and  truth  "  were  the  heart  of  his  life.  She 
had  not  told  him.  It  was  he  who  had  found  it 
out.  He  had  found  the  words  and  she  did  not 
want  him  to  say  them.  But  it  was  a  new  life  for 
them  both,  a  new  life  for  him  and  happiness  for 
her  even  if  he  did  not  come  back,  if  she  could 
forget  the  words. 

Putting  out  the  candle  at  her  bedside  suddenly 


HONEYCOMB  249 

and  quietly  with  the  match-box  to  avoid  the 
dreadful  puff  that  would  tell  her  mother  of  night, 
Miriam  lay  down.  The  extinguished  light 
splintered  in  the  darkness  before  her  eyes.  The 
room  seemed  suddenly  hot.  Her  limbs  ached, 
her  nerves  blazed  with  fatigue.  She  had  never 
felt  this  kind  of  tiredness  before.  She  lay  still  in 
the  darkness  with  open  eyes.  Mrs.  Henderson 
was  breathing  quietly  as  if  in  a  heavy  sleep.  She 
was  not  asleep  but  she  was  trying  to  sleep. 
Miriam  lay  watching  the  pawnbroker's  daughter 
in  the  little  room  at  the  back  of  the  shop,  in  the 
shop,  back  again  in  the  little  room,  coming  and 
going.  There  was  a  shining  on  her  face  and  on 
her  hair.    Miriam  watched  until  she  fell  asleep. 

7 

She  dreamed  she  was  in  the  small  music-room  in 
the  old  Putney  school,  hovering  invisible.  Lilla 
was  practising  alone  at  the  piano.  Sounds  of  the 
girls  playing  rounders  came  up  from  the  garden. 
Lilla  was  sitting  in  her  brown  merino  dress,  her 
black  curls  shut  down  like  a  little  cowl  over  her 
head  and  neck.  Her  bent  profile  was  stern  and 
manly,  her  eyes  and  her  bare  white  forehead 
manly    and    unconscious.      Her    lissome    brown 


250  HONEYCOMB 

hands  played  steadily  and  vigorously.  Miriam 
listened  incredulous  at  the  certainty  with  which 
she  played  out  her  sadness  and  her  belief.  It 
shocked  her  that  Lilla  should  know  so  deeply  and 
express  her  lonely  knowledge  so  ardently.  Her 
gold-flecked  brown  eyes  that  commonly  laughed 
at  everything,  except  the  problem  of  free-will, 
and  refused  questions,  had  as  much  sorrow  and 
certainty  as  she  had  herself.  She  and  Lilla  were 
one  person,  the  same  person.  Deep  down  in 
everyone  was  sorrow  and  certainty.  A  faint 
resentment  filled  her.  She  turned  away  to  go 
down  into  the  garden.  The  scene  slid  into  the 
large  music-room.  It  was  full  of  seated  forms. 
Lilla  was  at  the  piano,  her  foot  on  the  low  pedal, 
her  hands  raised  for  a  crashing  chord.  They 
came  down,  collapsing  faintly  on  a  blur  of  wrong 
notes.  Miriam  rejoiced  in  her  heart.  What  a 
fiend  I  am  .  .  .  what  a  fiend,  she  murmured, 
her  heart  hammering  condemnation.  Someone 
wa's  sighing  harshly  ;  to  be  heard  ;  in  the  dark- 
ness ;  not  far  off  ;  fully  conscious  she  glanced  at 
the  blind.  It  was  dark.  The  moon  was  not 
round.  It  was  about  midnight.  Her  face  and 
eyes  felt  thick  with  sleep.  The  air  was  rich  with 
sleep.     Her  body  was  heavy  with  a  richness  of 


HONEYCOMB  251 

sleep  and  fatigue.  In  a  moment  she  could  be 
gone  again.  ...  "  Shall  I  get  the  beef-tea, 
mother  ? ' '  .  .  .  she  heard  herself  say  in  a  thin 
wideawake  voice.  "  Oh  no  my  dear,"  sounded 
another  voice  patiently.  Rearing  her  numb 
consciousness  against  a  delicious  tide  of  on- 
coming sleep  she  threw  off  the  bed-clothes  and 
stumbled  to  the  floor.  "  You  can't  go  on  like 
this  night  after  night,  my  dear."  "  Yes  I  can," 
said  Miriam  in  a  tremulous  faint  tone.  The 
sleepless  even  voice  reverberated  again  in  the 
unbroken  sleeplessness  of  the  room.  "  It's  no  use 
...  I  am  cumbering  the  ground."  The  words 
struck  sending  a  heat  of  anger  and  resentment 
through  Miriam's  shivering  form.  She  spoke 
sharply,  groping  for  the  matches. 

8 

Hurrying  across  the  cold  stone  floor  of  the 
kitchen  she  lit  the  gas  from  her  candle.  Beetles 
ran  away  into  corners,  crackling  sickeningly 
under  the  fender.  A  mouse  darted  along  the 
dresser.  She  braced  herself  to  the  sight 
of  the  familiar  saucepan,  Miss  Meldrum's 
good  beef-tea  brown  against  the  white  enamel — 
helpless  .  .  .  waiting  for  the  beef-tea  to  get  hot 


252  HONEYCOMB 

she  ate  a  biscuit.  There  was  help  somewhere. 
All  those  people  sleeping  quietly  upstairs.  If  she 
asked  them  to  they  would  be  surprised  and  kind. 
They  would  suggest  rousing  her  and  getting  her 
to  make  efforts.  They  would  speak  in  rallying 
voices,  like  Dr.  Ryman  and  Mrs.  Skrine.  For  a 
day  or  two  it  would  be  better  and  then  much 
worse  and  she  would  have  to  go  away.  Where  ? 
It  would  be  the  same  everywhere.  There  was  no 
one  in  the  world  who  could  help.  There  was 
something  ...  if  she  could  leave  off  worrying. 
But  that  had  been  Pater's  advice  all  his  life  and  it 
had  not  helped.  It  was  something  more  than 
leaving  off  ...  it  was  something  real.  It  was 
not  affection  and  sympathy.  Eve  gave  them  ;  so 
easily,  but  they  were  not  big  enough.  They  did 
not  come  near  enough.  There  was  something 
crafty  and  worldly  about  them.  They  made  a 
sort  of  prison.  There  was  something  true  and  real 
somewhere.  Mother  knew  it.  She  had  learned 
how  useless  even  the  good  kind  people  were  and 
was  alone,  battling  to  get  at  something.  If  only 
she  could  get  at  it  and  rest  in  it.  It  was  there, 
everywhere.  It  was  here  in  the  kitchen,  in  the 
steam  rising  from  the  hot  beef-tea.  A  moon-ray 
came  through  the  barred  window  as  she  turned 


HONEYCOMB  253 

down  the  gas.     It  was  clear  in  the  eye  of  the 
moon-ray  ;   a  real  thing. 

Some  instinct  led  away  from  the  New  Testa- 
ment. It  seemed  impossible  to-night.  Without 
consulting  her  listener  Miriam  read  a  psalm. 
Mrs.  Henderson  put  down  her  cup  and  asked  her 
to  read  it  again.  She  read  and  fluttered  pages 
quietly  to  tell  the  listener  that  in  a  moment  there 
would  be  some  more.  Mrs.  Henderson  waited 
saying  nothing.  She  always  sighed  regretfully 
over  the  gospels  and  Saint  Paul,  though  she 
asked  for  them  and  seemed  to  think  she  ought  to 
read  them.  They  were  so  dreadful ;  the  gospels 
full  of  social  incidents  and  reproachfulness.  They 
seemed  to  reproach  everyone  and  to  hint  at  a 
secret  that  no  one  possessed  .  .  .  the  epistles 
did  nothing  but  nag  and  threaten  and  probe. 
St.  Paul  rhapsodised  sometimes.  .  .  .  but  in  a 
superior  way  .  .  .  patronising  ;  as  if  no  one  but 
himself  knew  anything.  .  .  . 

"  How  beautiful  upon  the  mountains  are  the 
feet  of  those  who  bring  "  she  read  evenly  and 
slowly.  Mrs.  Henderson  sighed  quietly.  .  .  . 
"  That's  Isaiah  mother.  .  .  .  Isaiah  is  a  beautiful 
name."  .  .  .  She  read  on.  Something  had 
shifted.    There  was  something  in  the  room.  .  .  . 


254  HONEYCOMB 

If  she  could  go  droning  on  and  on  in  an  even  tone 
it  would  be  there  more  and  more.  She  read  on 
till  the  words  flowed  together  and  her  droning 
voice  was  thick  with  sleep.  The  town  clock 
struck  two.  A  quiet  voice  from  the  other  bed 
brought  the  reading  to  an  end.  Sleep  was  in  the 
room  now.  She  felt  sure  of  it.  She  lay  down 
leaving  the  candle  alight  and  holding  her  eyes 
open.  As  long  as  the  candle  was  alight  the 
substance  of  her  reading  remained.  When  it  was 
out  there  would  be  the  challenge  of  silence  again 
in  the  darkness  .  .  .  perhaps  not ;  perhaps  it 
would  still  be  there  when  the  little  hot  point  of 
light  had  gone.  There  was  a  soft  sound  some- 
where .  .  .  the  sea.  The  tide  was  up,  washing 
softly.  That  would  do.  The  sound  of  it  would 
be  clearer  when  the  light  was  out  .  .  .  drowsy, 
lazy,  just  moving,  washing  the  edge  of  the  beach 
.  .  .  cool,  fresh.  Leaning  over  she  dabbed  the 
candle  noiselessly  and  sank  back  asleep  before  her 
head  reached  the  pillow. 

9 

In  the  room  yellow  with  daylight  a  voice  was 
muttering  rapidly,  rapid  words  and  chuckling 
laughter    and    stillness.      Miriam    grasped    the 


HONEYCOMB  255 

bedclothes  and  lay  rigid.  Something  in  her  fled 
out  and  away,  refusing.  But  from  end  to  end  of 
the  world  there  was  no  help  against  this.  It  was 
a  truth ;  triumphing  over  everything.  "  / 
know,"  said  a  high  clear  voice.  "  /  know  .  .  . 
I  don't  deceive  myself  "...  rapid  low  mutter- 
ing and  laughter.  ...  It  was  a  conversation. 
Somewhere  within  it  was  the  answer.  Nowhere 
else  in  the  world.  Forcing  herself  to  be  still 
she  accepted  the  sounds,  pitting  herself  against 
the  sense  of  destruction.  The  sound  of  violent 
lurching  brought  her  panic.  There  was  some- 
thing there  that  would  strike.  Hardly  knowing 
what  she  did  she  pretended  to  wake  with  a  long 
loud  yawn.  Her  body  shivered,  bathed  in 
perspiration.  "  What  a  lovely  morning  "  she 
said  dreamily,  "  what  a  perfect  morning."  Not 
daring  to  sit  up  she  reached  for  her  watch.  Five 
o'clock.  Three  more  hours  before  the  day  began. 
The  other  bed  was  still.  "  It's  going  to  be  a 
magnificent  day "  she  murmured  pretending 
to  stretch  and  yawn  again.  A  sigh  reached  her. 
The  stillness  went  on  and  she  lay  for  an  hour 
tense  and  listening.  Something  must  be  done 
to-day.  Someone  else  must  know.  ...  At  the 
end  of  an  hour  a  descending  darkness  took  her 


256  HONEYCOMB 

suddenly.     She  woke  from  it  to  the  sound  of 

violent  language,  furniture  being  roughly  moved, 

a  swift  angry  splashing  of  water  .  .  .  something 

breaking  out,  breaking  through  the  confinements 

of  this  little  furniture-filled  room  .  .  .  the  best 

gentlest   thing   she   knew  in   the   world   openly 

despairing  at  last. 

10 

The  old  homceopathist  at  the  other  end  of  the 
town  talked  quietly  on  .  .  .  the  afternoon  light 
shone  on  his  long  white  hair  .  .  .  the  principle 
of  health,  God-given  health,  governing  life.  To 
be  well  one  must  trust  in  it  absolutely.  One  must 
practise  trusting  in  God  every  day.  .  .  .  The 
patient  grew  calm,  quietly  listening  and  accepting 
everything  he  said,  agreeing  again  and  again. 
Miriam  sat  wondering  impatiently  why  they 
could  not  stay.  Here  in  this  quiet  place  with  this 
quiet  old  man,  the  only  place  in  the  world  where 
anyone  had  seemed  partly  to  understand,  mother 
might  get  better.  He  could  help.  He  knew  what 
the  world  was  like  and  that  nobody  understood. 
He  must  know  that  he  ought  to  keep  her.  But 
he  did  not  seem  to  want  to  do  anything  but  advise 
them  and  send  them  away.  She  hated  him,  his 
serene    white-haired    pink-faced    old    age.     He 


HONEYCOMB  257 

told  them  he  was  seventy-nine  and  had  never 
taken  a  dose  in  his  life.  Leaving  his  patient  to 
sip  a  glass  of  water  into  which  he  had  measured 
drops  of  tincture  he  took  Miriam  to  look  at  the 
greenhouse  behind  his  consulting  room.  As 
soon  as  they  were  alone  he  told  her  speaking 
quickly  and  without  benevolence  and  in  the  voice 
of  a  younger  man  that  she  must  summon  help, 
a  trained  attendant.  There  ought  to  be  some- 
one for  night  and  day.  He  seemed  to  know 
exactly  the  way  in  which  she  had  been  taxed  and 
spoke  of  her  youth.  It  is  very  wrong  for  you  to 
be  alone  with  her  he  added  gravely. 

Vaguely,  burning  witjb  shame  at  the  confession 
she  explained  that  it  could  not  be  afforded.  He 
listened  attentively  and  repeated  that  it  was 
absolutely  necessary.  She  felt  angrily  for  words 
to  explain  the  uselessness  of  attendants.  She 
was  sure  he  must  know  this  and  wanted  to 
demand  that  he  should  help,  then  and  there  at 
once,  with  his  quiet  house  and  his  knowledge. 
Her  eye  covered  him.  He  was  only  a  pious  old 
man  with  artificial  teeth  making  him  speak  with 
a  sort  of  sibilant  wooUiness.  Perhaps  he  too 
knew  that  in  the  end  even  this  would  fail.  He 
made  her  promise  to  write  for  help  and  refused 


258  HONEYCOMB 

a  fee.  She  hesitated  helplessly,  feeling  the 
burden  settle.  He  indicated  that  he  had  said 
his  say  and  they  went  back. 

On  the  way  home  they  talked  of  the  old  man. 
"  He  is  right  ;  but  it  is  too  late  "  said  Mrs. 
Henderson  with  clear  quiet  bitterness,  "  God 
has  deserted  me."  They  walked  on,  tiny  figures 
in  a  world  of  huge  grey-stone  houses.  "  He  will 
not  let  me  sleep.  He  does  not  want  me  to  sleep. 
.  .  .  He  does  not  care." 

A  thought  touched  Miriam,  touched  and 
flashed.  She  grasped  at  it  to  hold  and  speak  it, 
but  it  passed  off  into  the  world  of  grey  houses. 
Her  cheeks  felt  hollow,  her  feet  heavy.  She 
summoned  her  strength,  but  her  body  seemed 
outside  her,  empty,  pacing  forward  in  a  world  full 
of  perfect  unanswering  silence. 

ii 

The  bony  old  woman  held  Miriam  clasped 
closely  in  her  arms.  "  You  must  never,  as  long 
as  you  live,  blame  yourself  my  gurl."  She  went 
away.  Miriam  had  not  heard  her  come  in.  The 
pressure  of  her  arms  and  her  huge  body  came 
from  far  away.  Miriam  clasped  her  hands 
together.      She   could  not  feel  them.     Perhaps 


HONEYCOMB  259 

she  had  dreamed  that  the  old  woman  had  come 
in  and  said  that.  Everything  was  dream  ;  the 
world.  I  shall  not  have  any  life.  I  can  never 
have  any  life  ;  all  my  days.  There  were  cold 
tears  running  into  her  mouth.  They  had  no 
salt.  Cold  water.  They  stopped.  Moving  her 
body  with  slow  difficulty  against  the  unsupport- 
ing  air  she  looked  slowly  about.  It  was  so 
difficult  to  move.  Everything  was  airy  and 
transparent.  Her  heavy  hot  light  impalpable 
body  was  the  only  solid  thing  in  the  world, 
weighing  tons  ;  and  like  a  lifeless  feather.  There 
was  a  tray  of  plates  of  fish  and  fruit  on  the  table. 
She  looked  at  it,  heaving  with  sickness  and  look- 
ing at  it.  I  am  hungry.  Sitting  down  near  it 
she  tried  to  pull  the  tray.  It  would  not  move. 
I  must  eat  the  food.  Go  on  eating  food,  till  the 
end  of  my  life.  Plates  of  food  like  these  plates  of 
food.  ...  I  am  in  eternity  .  .  .  where  their 
worm  dieth  not  and  their  fire  is  not  quenched. 


Note. — The  next  volume  of  this  series  is  in  preparation. 


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A  LIST  OF  THE  LIBRARIES 
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DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES 


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DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND' SERIES      5 

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tion of  art  and  the  world's  masterpieces. 

The  first  six  volumes  are  : 

Raphael.     By  Julia  Cartwright. 
Botticelli.     By  Julia  Cartwright. 
G.  F.  Watts.     By  G.  K.  Chesterton. 
Leonardo  da  Vinci.     By  Georg  Gronau. 
Holbein.     By  Ford  Madox  Hueffer. 
Rossetti.     By  Ford  Madox  Hueffer. 


THE  CROWN  LIBRARY 

The  books  included  in  this  series  are  standard  copyright 
works,  issued  in  similar  style  at  a  uniform  price,  and  are 
eminently  suited  for  the  library.  They  are  particularly 
acceptable  as  prize  volumes  for  advanced'  students.  Demy 
8vo,  size  9  in.  by  5!  in.  Cloth  gilt,  gilt  top.  55.  net. 
Postage  $d. 

The  Ruba'iyAt  of  'Umar  Khayyam  (Fitzgerald's  2nd  Edition). 
Edited,  with  an  Introduction  and  Notes,  by  Edward  Heron  Allen. 

Science  and  Religion  in  Contemporary  Philosophy.  By 
Emile  Boutroux. 

Wanderings  in  Arabia.  By  Charles  M.  Doughtv.  An  abridged 
edition  of  "Travels  in  Arabia  Deserta."  With  portrait  and 
map.     In  2  vols. 

The  Intimate  Life  of  Alexander  Hamilton.  By  Allan  McLane 
Hamilton.     Illustrated. 

Folk-Lore  of  the  Holy  Land  :  Moslem,  Christian,  and  Jewish. 

By  J.  E.  Hanauer.     Edited  by  Marmaduke  Pickthall. 
Life  and  Evolution.     By  F.  W.  Headley,  F.Z.S.     With  upwards 

of  100  illustrations.     New  and  revised  edition  (1913). 

The  Note-Books  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci.  Edited  by  Edward 
McCurdy.     With  14  illustrations. 

The  Life  and  Letters  of  Leslie  Stephen.  By  F.  W.  Maitland. 
With  a  photogravure  portrait. 


DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES 

The  Crown  Library — continued 

The  Country  Month  by  Month.  By  J.  A.  Owen  and  G.  S. 
Boulger.  With  notes  on  Birds  by  Lord  Lilford.  With  20  black 
and  white  illustrations. 

*#*  A  new  special  edition  of  this  book,  with  12  illustrations  in  colour 
and  20  in  black  and  white,  is  published.     Price  6s.  net. 

The  English  Utilitarians.     By  Sir  Leslie  Stephen.     3  vols. 

Vol.      I.  James  Mill. 

Vol.    II.  Jeremy  Bentham. 

Vol.  III.  John  Stuart  Mill. 

Critical  Studies.  By  S.  Arthur  Strong.  With  Memoir  by  Lord 
Balcarres,  M.P.     Illustrated. 

Medieval  Sicily  :  Aspects  of  Life  and  Art  in  the  Middle  Ages, 
By  Cecilia  Waern.      With  very  many  illustrations. 


MODERN    PLAYS 

Including  the  dramatic  work  of  leading  contemporary 
writers,  such  as  Andreyef,  Bjornson,  Galsworthy,  Hauptmann, 
Ibsen,  Maeterlinck,  Eden  Phillpotts,  Strindberg,  Sudermann, 
Tchekoff,  and  others. 

In  single  volumes.     Cloth,  2s.  net;  paper  covers,  is.  6d.  net 
a  volume  ;  postage,  $d. 

The  Revolt  and  the  Escape.     By  Villiers  de  L'Isle  Adam.  ■ 
( Cloth  binding  only. ) 

IIernani.    A  Tragedy.     By  Frederick  Brock.     {Cloth  binding  only.) 

Tristram  and  Iseult.     A  Drama.     By  J.  Comyns  Carr. 

Passers-By.     By  C.  Haddon  Chambers. 

The  Likeness  ok  the  Night.     By  Mrs  W.  K.  Clifford. 

A  Woman  Alone.     By  Mrs  W.  K.  Clifford. 

The  Silver  Box.     By  John  Galsworthy. 

Joy.     By  John  Galsworthy. 

Strife.     By  John  Galsworthy. 

Justice.     By  John  Galsworthy. 

The  Eldest  Son.     By  John  Galsworthy. 

The  Little  Dream.     By  John  Galsworthy.     {Cloth,  is.  6d.  net; 
paper  covers,  is.  net.) 

The  Fugitive.     By  John  Galsworthy. 


DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES       7 

Modern  Plays — continued 

The  Mob.     By  John  Galsworthy. 

The  Pigeon.     By  John  Galsworthy. 

A  Bit  o'  Love.     By  John  Galsworthy. 

The  Coming  of  Peace.     By  Gerhart  Hauptmann.     {Cloth  binding 
only. ) 

Love's  Comedy.     By  Henrik  Ibsen.     {Cloth  binding  only.) 

The  Divine  Gift.     A  Play.     By  Henry  Arthur  Jones.     With  an 
Introduction  and  a  Portrait.     ($s.  6d.  net.     Cloth  binding  only.) 

The  Widowing  of   Mrs   Holroyd.      A  Drama.      By   D.    H. 
Lawrence.     With  an  Introduction.     {Cloth  only,  35.  6d.  net.) 

Three  Little  Dramas.    By  Maurice  Maeterlinck.    (Cloth  binding 
only.) 

St  Francis  of  Assisi.     A  Play  in  Five  Acts.     By  J. -A.  Peladon, 
{Cloth  only,  y.  6d.  net.) 

Peter's  Chance.     A  Play.     By  Edith  Lyttelton. 

The  Mother.     A  Play.     By  Eden  Phillpotts. 

The  Shadow.     A  Play.     By  Eden  Phillpotts. 

The  Secret  Woman.     A  Drama.     By  Eden  Phillpots. 

Curtain  Raisers.     One  Act  Plays.     By  Eden  Phillpots. 

The  Father.     By  August  Strindberg.     {Cloth  binding  only.) 

Creditors.    Pariah.    Two  Plays.    By  August  Strindberg.    (Clotk 
binding  only. ) 

Miss  Julia.    The  Stronger.    Two  Plays.    By  August  Strindberg. 
( Cloth  binding  only. ) 

There  are  Crimes  and  Crimes.     By  August  Strindberg.     (Cloth 
binding  only. ) 

Roses.     Four  One  Act  Plays.     By  Hermann  Sudermann.     (Cloth 
binding  only. ) 

Morituri.      Three   One   Act    Plays.      By   Hermann   Sudermann. 
( Cloth  binding  only. ) 

The  Joy  of  Living.     A  Play.     By  Hermann  Sudermann.     (Cloth 
only,  $s.  net.) 

Five  Little  Plays.     By  Alfred  Sutro. 

The  Two  Virtues.     A  Play.     By  Alfred  Sutro. 

Freedom.   A  Play.    By  Alfred  Sutro.   2s.  6d.  net  do. ,  and  2s.  netppr. 

The  Dawn  (Les  Aubes).     By   Emile  Verhaeren.     Translated   by- 
Arthur  Symons.     (Cloth  binding  only.) 

The  Princess  of  Hanover.     By  Margaret   L.  Woods.     (Clotk 
binding  only. ) 


8       DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES 

Modern  Plays — continued 

Plays.     By  Leonid  Andreyef.     Translated  from  the  Russian, 

with  an  Introduction  by  F.  N.  Scott  and  C.  L.  Meader. 

Cr.  Sv o,  cloth  gilt.     $s.  net. 
Plays.     (First    Series.)     By   Bjornstjerne   Bjornson.     (The 

Gauntlet,  Beyond  our  Power,  The  New  System.)     With 

an  Introduction  and  Bibliography.    In  one  vol.     Cr.  Svo. 

5  j.  net. 
Plays.     (Second  Series.)    By  Bjornstjerne  Bjornson.    (Love 

and   Geography,   Beyond  Human   Might,   Laboremus.) 

With  an    Introduction    by   Edwin  Bjorkman.     In  one 

vol.     Cr.  Svo.     5*.  net. 
Three  Plays.    By  Mrs  W.  K.  Clifford.    (Hamilton's  Second 

Marriage,  Thomas  and  the  Princess,  The  Modern  Way.) 

Sq.  cr.  Svo.     $s.  net. 

Plays  (Volume  One).  By  John  Galsworthy.  Three  Plays 
(Joy,  Strife,  The  Silver  Box).     Sq.  cr.  Svo.     55.  net. 

Plays  (Volume  Two).  By  John  Galsworthy.  Three  Plays 
(Justice,  The  Little  Dream,  The  Eldest  Son).  Sq.  cr. 
Svo.     55.  net. 

Plays  (Volume  Three).  By  John  Galsworthy.  Three 
Plays  (The  Pigeon,  The  Fugitive,  The  Mob).  Sq.  cr. 
Svo.     $s.  net. 

Plays.  By  Gwen  John,  (Outlaws,  Corinna,  Sealing  the 
Compact,  Edge  o'  Dark,  The  Case  of  Theresa,  In  the 
Rector's  Study.)  With  an  Introduction.   Cr.  Svo.  55-.  net, 

Four  Tragedies.  By  Allan  Monkhouse.  (The  Hayling 
Family,  The  Stricklands,  Resentment,  Reaping  the 
Whirlwind.)     Cr.  Svo,  cloth  gilt.     5*.  net. 

Plays.  By  Eden  Phillpots.  (The  Mother,  The  Shadow, 
The  Secret  Woman.)     Cr.  Svo.     $s.  net. 

Plays.  (First  Series.)  By  August  Strindberg.  (The  Dream 
Play,  The  Link,  The  Dance  of  Death,  Part  I.  ;  The 
Dance  of  Death,  Part  II.)     Cr.  Svo.     55-.  net. 

Plays.  (Second  Series.)  By  August  Strindberg.  (Creditors, 
Pariah,  There  are  Crimes  and  Crimes,  Miss  Julia,  The 
Stronger.)     $s.  net. 


DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES       9 

Modern  Plays — continued 

Plays.  (Third  Series.)  By  August  Strindberg.  (Advent, 
Simoom,  Swan  White,  Debit  and  Credit,  The  Thunder 
Storm,  After  the  Fire.)      Cr.  Svo.     55-.  net. 

Plays.  (Fourth  Series.)  By  August  Strindberg.  (The 
Bridal  Crown,  The  Spook  Sonata,  The  First  Warning, 
Gustavus  Vasa.)     Cr.  Svo.     55.  net. 

Plays.  (First  Series.)  By  Anton  Tchekoff.  (Uncle  Vanya, 
Ivanoff,  The  Seagull,  The  Swan  Song.)  With  an 
Introduction.      Cr.  Svo.     5s.  net. 

Plays.  (Second  Series.)  By  Anton  Tchekoff.  (The  Cherry 
Orchard,  The  Three  Sisters,  The  Bear,  The  Proposal, 
The  Marriage,  The  Anniversary,  A  Tragedian.)  With  an 
Introduction.  Completing  in  two  volumes  the  Dramatic 
Works  of  Tchekoff.     Cr.  Svo.     55.  net. 


THE  READERS'  LIBRARY 

A  new  series  of  Copyright    Works  of  Individual  Merit  and 
Permanent  Value — the  work  of  Authors  of  Repute. 

Library  style.      Cr.  Svo.     Blue  cloth  gilt,  round  backs. 
25.  6d.  net  a  volume  ;  postage,  4d. 

Avril.     By   Hilaire    Belloc.     Essays   on    the    Poetry    of    the    French 
Renaissance. 

Esto  Perpetua.     By  Hilaire  Belloc.    Algerian  Studies  and  Impressions. 

Men,  Women,  and  Books  :   Res  Judicata.     By  Augustine  Birrell. 

Complete  in  one  vol. 
Obiter  Dicta.       By  Augustine  Birrell.     First  and  Second  Series  in 

one  volume. 
Memoirs  of  a  Surrey  Labourer.     By  George  Bourne. 
The  Bettesworth  Book.       By  George  Bourne. 

Studies   in   Poetry.     By  Stopford   A.    Brooke,    LL.D.     Essays   on 

Blake,  Scott,  Shelley,  Keats,  etc. 
Four  Poets.     By  Stopford  A.    Brooke,   LL.D.     Essays   on   Clough, 

Arnold,  Rossetti,  and  Morris. 
Comparative  Studies  in  Nursery  Rhymes.    By  Lina  Eckenstein. 

Essays  in  a  branch  of  Folk-lore. 


io    DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES 

The  Readers'  Library — continued 

Italian  Poets  since  Dante.     Critical  Essays.     By  W.  Everett. 
Villa  Rubein,  and  Other  STORIES.     By  John  Galsworthy. 

The  Signal,  and  other  Stories.     Translated  from  the  Russian  by 

W.  M.  Garshin. 
Faith,  and  other  Sketches.     By  R.  B:  Cunninghame  Graham. 
Hope,  and  other  Sketches.     By  R.  B.  Cunninghame  Graham. 
Progress,  and  other  Sketches.     By  R.  B.  Cunninghame  Graham. 
Success,  and  other  Sketches.     By  R.  B.  Cunninghame  Graham. 
Thirteen  Stories.     By  R.  B.  Cunninghame  Graham. 
Twenty-six  Men  and  a  Girl,  and  other   Stories.     By  Maxim 

Gorky.     Translated  from  the  Russian. 
Green  Mansions.     A  Romance  of  the  Tropical  Forest.     By  W.   H. 

Hudson. 
The  Purple  Land.     By  W.  H.  Hudson. 

A  Crystal  Age  :  a  Romance  of  the  Future.     By  \V.  H.  Hudson. 
The  Critical  Attitude.     By  Ford  Madox  Hueffer. 
The  Heart  of  the  Country.     By  Ford  Madox  Hueffer. 
The  Spirit  of  the  People.     By  Ford  Madox  Hueffer. 
After  London — Wild  England.     By  Richard  Jefferies. 
Amaryllis  at  the  Fair.     By  Richard  Jefferies. 
Bevis.     The  Story  of  a  Boy.     By  Richard  Jefferies. 
The  Hills  and  the  Vale.     Nature  Essays.     By  Richard  Jefferies. 
Russian  Literature.  New  and  revised  edition.  By  Prince  Kropotkin. 
The  Greatest  Life.     An  inquiry  into  the  foundations  of  character. 

By  Gerald  Leighton,  M.D. 
St  Augustine  and  his  Age.     An  Interpretation.     By  Joseph  McCabe. 
Yvette,  and  other  Stories.     By  Guy  de  Maupassant.     Translated 

by  Mrs  John  Galsworthy.     W  th  a  Preface  by  Joseph  Conrad. 
Between  the  Acts.     By  II.  W.  Nevinson. 
Essays  in  Freedom.     By  H.  W.  Nevinson. 
Principle  in  Art  :  Rei.igio  Poet.*:.     By  Coventry  Patmore. 
Parallel  Paths.     A  Study  in  Biology,  Ethics,  and  Art.     By  T.  W. 

Rolleston. 
The  Strenuous  Life,  and  other  Essays.     By  Theodore  Roosevelt. 
English  Literature  and  Society  in  the  Eighteenth  Century. 

By  Sir  Leslie  Stephen. 


DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES     n 

The  Readers'  Library — continued 

Studies  of  a  Biographer.     First   Series.     Two  Volumes.     By  Sic 

Leslie  Stephen. 
Studies  of  a  Biographer.     Second  Series.     Two  Volumes.     By  Sir 

Leslie  Stephen. 
The  Black  Monk,  and  other  Tales.     By  Anton  Tchekofi". 
The  Kiss,  and  other  Stories.     By  Anton  Tchekoff. 
Interludes.     By  Sir  Geo.  Trevelyan. 


THE  ROADMENDER  SERIES. 

The  additional  volumes  in  the  series  are  books  with  the  same 
tendency  as  Michael  Fairless's  remarkable  work,  from 
which  the  series  gets  its  name  :  books  which  express  a 
deep  feeling  for  Nature,  and  render  the  value  of  simplicity 
in  life.     Fcap.  Svo,  with  designed  end  papers.     2s.  6d.  net. 

The  Brow  of  Courage.     By  Gertrude  Bone. 

Women  of  the  Country.     By  Gertrude  Bone. 

The  Sea  Charm  of  Venice.     By  Stopford  A.  Brooke. 

Magic  Casements.     By  Arthur  S.  Cripps. 

A  Martyr's  Servant.     By  Arthur  S.  Cripps. 

A  Martyr's  Heir.     By  Arthur  S.  Cripps. 

The  Roadmender.  By  Michael  Fairless.  Also  in  limp  lambskin, 
35.  6d.  net.  Velvet  calf  yapp,  $s.  net.  Illustrated  Edition  with 
Black  and  White  Illustrations  by  W.  G.  Mein,  cr.  Svo,  5s.  net. 
Also  Special  Illustrated  edition  in  colour  from  oil  paintings  by 
E.  W.  Waite,  "js.  6d.  net.     Edition  de  Luxe,  \$s.  net. 

The  Gathering  of  Brother  Hilarius.  By  Michael  Fairless. 
Also  limp  lambskin,  y.  6d.  net.      Velvet  calf  yapp,  $s.  net. 

The  Grey  Brethren.  By  Michael  Fairless.  Also  limp  lambskin, 
y.  6d.  net.      Velvet  calf  yapp,  $s.  net. 

A  Special  Illustrated  Edition  of  the  Children's  Stories,  which  appear 
in  The  Grey  Brethren,  is  published  under  the  title  of  "Stories  Told 
to  Children."  The  Illustrations  in  Colour  are  from  Drawings  by 
Flora  White. 

Michael  Fairless  :  Life  and  Writings.  By  W.  Scott  Palmer 
and  A.  M.  Haggard.     Also  Persian  yapp,  $s.  net. 

The  Roadmender  Book  of  Days.  A  Year  of  Thoughts  from  the 
Roadmender  Series.  Selected  and  arranged  by  Mildred  Gentle. 
Also  in  limp  lambskin,  y.  6tf.  net.      Velvet  calf  yapp,  55.  net. 


12    DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES 

The  Roadmender  Series — continued 
A  Modern  Mystic's  Way.     By  Wm.  Scott  Palmer. 
From  the  Forest.     By  Wm.  Scott  Palmer. 
Pilgrim  Man.     By  Wm.  Scott  Palmer. 
Winter  and  Spring.     By  Wm.  Scott  Palmer. 
Thoughts  of  Lkonardo  da  Vinci.     Selected  by  Edward  McCurdy. 

The  Plea  ok  Pan.     By  II.  W.   Nevinson,   author  of  "Essays  in 

Freedom,"  "Between  the  Acts." 

Bedesman  4.     By  Mary  J.  H.  Skrine. 

Vagrom  Men.     By  A.  T.  Story. 

Light  and  Twilight.     By  Edward  Thomas. 

Rest  and  Unrest.     By  Edward  Thomas. 

Rose  Acre  Papers  :  IIor^e  Solitari^:.     By  Edward  Thomas. 

SOCIAL  QUESTIONS  SERIES. 

Makers  of  Our  Clothes.  A  Case  for  Trade  Boards.  By  Miss 
Clementina  Black  and  Lady  Carl  Meyer.     Demy  8vo.     $s.  net. 

Sweated  Industry  and  the  Minimum  Wage.  By  Clementina 
Black.  With  Preface  by  A.  G.  Gardiner.  Cloth,  crown  Svo. 
2s.  net. 

Women  in  Industry:  From  Seven  Points  of  View.  With 
Introduction  by  D.  J.  Shackleton.     Cloth,  crown  8vo.     2s.  net. 

The  Worker's  Handbook.  By  Gertrude  M.  Tuckwell.  A  hand- 
book of  legal  and  general  information  for  the  Clergy,  for  District 
Visitors,  and  all  Social  Workers.     Cr.  8vo.     2s.  net. 

STORIES  OF  ANIMAL  LIFE,  Etc. 

Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

Uniform  binding.     Large  crown  Svo.     6s. 

Under  the  Roof  of  the  Jungle.  A  Book  of  Animal  Life 
in  the  Guiana  Wilds.  Written  and  illustrated  by  Charles 
Livingston  Bull.  With  60  full-page  plates  drawn  from 
Life  by  the  Author. 

The  Kindred  of  the  Wild.  A  Book  of  Animal  Life.  By 
Charles  G.  D.  Roberts,  Professor  of  Literature,  Toronto 
University,  late  Deputy-Keeper  of  Woods  and  Forests, 
Canada.     With  illustrations  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 


DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES     13 

Stories  of  Animal  Life,  etc. — continued 

The  Watchers  of  the  Trails.  A  Book  of  Animal  Life. 
By  Charles  G.  D.  Roberts.  With  48  illustrations  by 
Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

The  Story  of  Red  Fox.  A  Biography.  By  Charles  G.  D. 
Roberts.     Illustrated  by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 

The  Haunters  of  the  Silences.     A  Book  of  Wild  Nature. 

By    Charles   G.    D.    Roberts.      Illustrated   by    Charles 

Livingston  Bull. 
Plantation  Stories.     By  Andrews  Wilkinson.     Illustrated 

by  Charles  Livingston  Bull. 


STUDIES   IN  THEOLOGY 

A  New  Series  of  Handbooks,  being  aids  to  interpretation  in 
Biblical  Criticism  for  the  use  of  the  Clergy,  Divinity 
Students,  and  Laymen.     Cr.  Svo.     2s.  6d.  net  a  volume, 

Christianity  and  Ethics.  By  the  Rev.  Archibald  B.  D.  Alexander, 
M.A.,  D.D.,  author  of  "  A  Short  History  of  Philosophy,"  "The 
Ethics  of  St  Paul." 

The  Environment  of  Early  Christianity.  By  the  Rev.  Professor 
Samuel  Angus,  Professor  of  New  Testament  Historical  Theology 
in  St  Andrew's  College,  University  of  Sydney.    Cr.  Svo.   2s.  6d.  net. 

History  of  the  Study  of  Theology.  By  the  late  Charles 
Augustus  Briggs,  D.D.,  D.Litt.,  of  the  Union  Theological 
Seminary,  New  York.     Two  Volumes. 

The  Christian  Hope.  A  Study  in  the  Doctrine  of  the  Last  Things. 
By  W.  Adams  Brown,  Ph.D.,  D.D.,  Professor  of  Theology  in  the 
Union  College,  New  York. 

Christianity  and  Social  Questions.  By  the  Rev.  William 
Cunningham,  D.D.,  F.B.A.,  Fellow  of  Trinity  College,  Cam- 
bridge, Hon.  Fellow  of  Gonville  and  Caius  College,  Cambridge, 
Archdeacon  of  Ely,  formerly  Lecturer  on  Economic  History  to 
Harvard  University. 

The  Justification  of  God.     By  the  Rev.  Principal  P.  T.  Forsyth, 

M.A.,  D.D.,  of  the  Hackney  Theological  College,  University  of 

London. 
A  Handbook  of  Christian  Apologetics.     By  the  Rev.  A.  E. 

Garvie,  M.A.,  Hon.  D.D..  Glasgow  University,  Principal  of  New 

College,  Hampstead. 


M     DUCKWORTH  &  CO.'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES 

Studies  in  Theology — continued 

A  Critical  Introduction  to  the  Old  Testament,  By  the  Rev. 
George  Buchanan  Gray,  M.A.,  D.  Litt.,  Professor  of  Hebrew  and 
Old  Testament  Exegesis  in  Mansfield  College,  Oxford. 

Gospel  Origins.  A  Study  in  the  Synoptic  Problem.  By  the  Rev. 
William  West  Holdsworth,  M.A.,  Tutor  in  New  Testament 
Language  and  Literature,  Handsworth  College;  author  of  "The 
Chnst  of  the  Gospels,"  "  The  Life  of  Faith,*'-  etc. 

Faith  and  its  Psychology.  By  the  Rev.  William  R.  Inge,  D.D., 
Dean  of  St  Paul's,  Lady  Margaret  Professor  of  Divinity,  Cam- 
bridge, and  Bampton  Lecturer,  Oxford,  1899. 

Christianity  and  Sin.  By  the  Rev.  Robert  Mackintosh,  M.A., 
D.  D. ,  Professor  of  Apologetics  in  Lancashire  Independent 
College  ;  Lecturer  in  the  University  of  Manchester. 

Protestant  Thought  before  Kant.  By  A.  C.  McGiffert,  Th.D., 
D.D.,  of  the  Union  Theological  Seminary,  New  York. 

The  Theology  of  the  Gospels.  By  the  Rev.  James  Moffat,  B.D., 
D.D.,  of  the  U.F.  Church  of  Scotland,  sometime  Jowett  Lecturer, 
London,  author  of  "The  Historical  New  Testament." 

A  History  of  Christian  Thought  since  Kant.  By  the  Rev. 
Edward  Caldwell  Moore,  D.D.,  Parkman  Professor  of  Theology 
in  the  University  of  Harvard,  U.S.A.,  author  of  "The  New 
Testament  in  the  Christian  Church,"  etc. 

The  Doctrine  of  the  Atonement.  By  the  Rev.  J.  K.  Mosley, 
M.A.,  Fellow  and  Tutor  of  Pembroke  College,  Cambridge. 

Revelation  and  Inspiration.  By  the  Rev.  James  Orr,  D.D., 
Professor  of  Apologetics  in  the  Theological  College  of  the  United 
Free  Church,  Glasgow. 

A  Critical  Introduction  to  the  New  Testament.  By  Arthur 
Samuel  Peake,  D.D.,  Professor  of  Biblical  Exegesis  and  Dean  of 
the  Faculty  of  Theology,  Victoria  University,  Manchester;  some- 
time Fellow  of  Merlon  College,  Oxford. 

Philosophy  and  Religion.  By  the  Rev.  Hastings  Rashdall, 
D.Litt.  (Oxon.),  D.C.L.  (Durham),  F.B.A.,  Fellow  and  Tutor 
of  New  College,  Oxford. 

The  Holy  Spirit.     By  the  Rev.  Principal  Rees,  of  Bala  and  Bangor 

College. 

The  Religious  Ideas  of  the  Old  Testament.  By  the  Rev.  H. 
Wheeler  Robinson,  M.A.,  Tutor  in  Rawdon  College;  sometime 
Senior  Kennicott  Scholar  in  Oxford  University. 

Text  and  Canon  of  the  New  Testament.  By  Alexander  Souter, 
M.A.,  D.Litt.,  Professor  of  Humanity  at  Aberdeen  University. 

Christian  Thought  to  the  Reformation.  By  Herbert  B.  Work- 
man, M.A.,  D.Litt.,  Principal  ofthe  Westminster  Training  College. 


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Dunlop.  Cover  design  by  Charles  Robinson.  Royal 
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The  Arabian  Nights.  Gulliver's  Travels. 

Robinson  Crusoe.  Hawthorne's  Wonder  Book. 

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The  Buccaneers.     By  A.  E.  Bonsor. 

The  Fortunate  Princeling.     By  A.  D.  Bright. 

Wanted  a  King.     By  Maggie  Browne. 

Elves  and  Princesses.     By  Bernard  Darwin. 

The  Enchanted  Wood.     By  S.  H.  Hamer. 

The  Four  Glass  Balls.     By  S.  H.  Hamer. 

The  Adventures  of  Spider  &  Co.     By  S.  H.  Hamer. 

Gervas  and  the  Magic  Castle.     By  B.  S.  Harvey. 

The  Magic  Dragon.     By  B.  S.  Harvey. 

The  Fairy  Latchkey.     By  Magdalene  Horsfall. 

The  Little  Maid  who  Danced.     By  Helena  Nyblom. 

The  Strange  Little  Girl.     By  B.  Sidney  Woolf. 

Golden  House.     By  B.  Sidney  Woolf. 

The  Twins  in  Ceylon.     By  B.  Sidney  Woolf. 

More  about  the  Twins  in  Ceylon.     By  B.  Sidney  Woolf. 


i6     DUCKWORTH  &  OCX'S  LIBRARIES  AND  SERIES 
Two  Shilling  Novels 

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Three  Weeks.  The  Sequence. 

The  Reason-  Why.  The  Man  and  the 

HALCYONE.  Moment. 

V  Other  books  by  Mrs  Glyn  will  be  added  from  time  to  lime. 
The  Book  of  Martha.     By  the  Lion.  Mrs  Dowdall 
The  Spare  Room.     By  Mrs  Romilly  Fedden 
Vronina  :  A  Welsh  Romance.     By  Owen  Vaughan. 
Where  Bonds  are  Loosed.     By  Grant  Watson. 


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'  ist  date    •■ir-ipeH  Hp'ov 


uiNivtKbii  r    Ul-    LALIhUHNIA  AT   LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  helow 

AUG  21 1945 


jfil 


K  mm* 

ft  ww&* 


U0V7 


Form  L-fl 

20m  -12/88(8880) 


1975 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA    000  378  922    9 


■I 


